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BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


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THE 


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Clristmas  ixnla  |XHu  ^tKx's 


a  I  F  T. 


Edited  by  Rev.  S.  D.  BUHCHARD. 


-•-•-♦- 


NEW  YORK : 

LEAVITT  &  ALLEX,  379  BROADWAY. 


LOAN  STACK 


|llustratiM5. 


AYii 

L  3^ 


GENTLE  BEAUTY, frontispiece, 

ILLUMINATION, before  title. 

THE  DESERTED, 34 

THE  SEA-GULL, Y-O 

THE  GRAVE,     -        -        .        .        .        .        .        -      124 
DOMESTIC  CIRCLE, I94 


Q 


f^S5 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
Preface,  -  --,..^,--3 

Annuals,  ---.,-«  -.9 
Ideal  of  a  Christian  Woman,  Mrs.  E.  D.  W.  McKee,  -  14 
On  the  Death  of  a  young  Artist,  Mrs.  Emma  C.  Embury,    33 

The  Deserted,  S.  D.  B. 35 

The  Maiden's  Farewell  to  her  Lover,  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Ste- 
phens,   --------53 

The  Alchymist  of  Corinth,  C.  Donald  McLeod,       -        -    56 
Sonnet,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,         -         -         -       364 
Humanity,  Horace  Cheeley,  ---.--     71 
To  a  Star,  Ernest  Helfenstein,     -----         77 

The  Conspirators,  J.  P.  Brace,       -----     79 

Changes  on  the  Deep,  H.  F.  Gould,     -         -         -  97 

The  Usurper,  Mrs.  J.  Webb, 103 

The  Maid  of  Rockland  Lake,  Rev.  Edward  Hopper,  -  124 
DifBculties  in  the   Government  of  God,  Rev.  George  B. 

Cheever,  D.  D. 129 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Harriet  Newell,  Rev.  T.  H.  Galhu- 

det, 133 

St.  Muir,  Mrs.  Eliza  Van  Home  Ellis,  .        .        .  135 

The  Mother,  Mrs.  Anne  E.  Kendrick,  -  -  -  176 
Immortality,  Rev.  William  Whittaker,  -         -         -         -  180 


Vlir  CONTENTS. 

Tuditli,  Rev.  Charles  Constantine  Pise,  D.  D.     -  -       189 

Domestic  Happiness,  Rev.  S.  D.  Burchard,    -  -         -  194 

Our  World  is  full  of  Joy,  William  Oland  Bourne,  -       202 

Letter  to  Cousin 'Bel,' Fanny  "Forrester,"     •  -        -204 

Grenville  Mellen,  Mrs.  Jane  E.  Locke,        -         -  -       215 

Belshazzar's  Feast,       -         -         -         -         -  -         -218 

The  Prosperity  of  Science,  Rev.  William  McJimsey,  -       224 

The  White  Flower,  Mrs.  D.  Ellen  Good/nan,  -         -  226 

Sabbath  Reminiscences,  Mrs.  J.  L.  Gray,  -         -  -       250 

The  Power  of  God,  Rev.  W.  B.  Sprague  D.  D.  -        -  255 

My  Native  Vale,  Mrs.  J.  Webb,          -         -         -  -       2G3 


THE 

LAUREL   WREATH 


ANNUALS. 

An  Annual  is  an  offering  at  the  shrine  of  friend- 
ship— a  token  of  hallowed  reminiscences  that  live  and 
linger  around  the  heart.  And  we  hail,  with  gladness, 
the  "  Wreaths,"  the  "Amaranths,"  the  "  Magnolias," 
the  "Dahlias  J  "these  flowers  of  thought  and  senti- 
ment that  remain  fresh  and  fragrant  even  amid  the 
coldness  of  winter.  They  show  that  there  are  yet 
some  verdant  spots  in  our  world,  consecrated  to  genius, 
to  poetry,  to  friendship.  They  take  the  place,  of  cus- 
toms ancient,  and  honorable,  to  the  better  feelings  of 
our  nature ;  but  which  are  gradually  falling  into  dis- 
use. Now  as  we  are  admirers  of  antiquity,  we  love 
to  look  back  to  olden  times,  when  the  world  had  not 
lost  its  rude  simplicity,  was  more  social  and  homely  and 
abounded  more  in  the  "ancient  honesty"  of  right  good 
fellowship.  If  the  exterior  was  uncouth,  the  man 
wUhin — the  soul  was  full  and  flowing  over  with  the 
rich  "milk  of  human  kindness." 

Christmas  was  then  a  great  Jubilee  day — voices  of 

mirth  sounded  out  from  hill  and  valley,  while  voices 

of  praise  filled  the  vaulted  arches  of  every  sanctuaiy 

A2 


10  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

with  their  pealing  Ilozannas.  It  was  a  high  festival, 
in  humble  cottages  and  baronial  halls.  Mutual  kind- 
nesses and  gratulations  were  given  and  returned.  The 
noble  sympathies  of  our  nature  broke  forth  with  a  freer 
flow,  freshening  all  the  old  memories  of  the  heart. 
The  past  became  the  present.  Imagination  in  her 
"airy  flight"  brought  again  the  old  familiar  faces  of 
the   lost  and   the   loved — the  very  dead   canie  back 


agam. 


"Even  in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore." 

Hushed  now  are  the  carols  of  merry  Christimas — 
husiicd  even  in  England — merry  Old  England.  The 
noise  and  clattering  machinery  of  busy  life  have 
drowned  all  the  glorious  voices  of  the  piping  and  sino-- 


mg  tmies. 


"The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces — 
The  r?iil-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand, 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  Horses." 

So,  too,  in  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims:  hor  "Thanks- 
giving-Day" is  not  what  it  once  was.  It  lacks  the 
deep  earnestness  of  the  old  Puritan  piety.  Men  there 
were,  that  then  went  up  to  the  city  of  their  King  with 
thanksgiving  and  songs  of  praise. 

What  a  dinner,  too,  was  the  old  Thanksgiving  din- 
nor !  You  might  fancy  it  a  hecatomb — a  free-will 
oir.ring  to  the  genius  of  Iiospitality.  There  was  the 
father,  venerable  in  form,  and  frosted  with  years, 
gathering  arouml  him  his  long  line  of  descendants, 


ANNUALS.  11 

even  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  And  in  those 
festal  hours,  he  seemed  to  live  life  over  again,  and  his 
dim  eye  brightened,  as  he  recounted  the  incidents 
and  exploits  of  his  early  years.  Hallowed  days,  the 
days  of  yore ! 

At  the  opening  of  the  New  Year,  also,  what  a 
sending  of  compliments  and  cakes !  New  Year's 
Day  was  a  "Saturnalia"  of  kindness  and  good  humor. 
The  current  of  the  heart  broke  forth  afresh,  and  the 
paltry  distinctions  between  man  and  man  were  lost, 
for  a  day,  in  the  generous  gush  of  true-hearted  friend- 
ship. The  servant,  in  the  general  joy,  forgot  his  in- 
feriority— the  master  laid  aside  his  lofty  mien,  and 
the  pervading  feeling  of  the  heart  was  that  of  univer- 
sal brotherhood.  The  custom  was  a  noble  one,  and 
founded  on  a  just  and  elevated  view  of  human  nature. 
It  has  a  very  ancient  origin,  early  as  the  time  of  Ta- 
tius,  who  reigned  conjointly  with  Romulus.  The 
Romans  had  their  Strence,  or  sprigs  of  vervain,  gath- 
ered in  a  wood  consecrated  to  the  Goddess  of  Health, 
which  they  presented  to  their  friends  on  the  Kalends 
of  January,  accompanied  with  the  "  Omnia  fausta," 
or  mutual  wishes  for  each  other's  health  and  happi- 
ness. 

Thus,  too,  during  the  Agnalia,  or  feasts  in  honor 
of  Janus,  they  sent  presents  to  each  other  of  figs,  dates, 
honey,  etc.  The  freed-man  and  the  client  sent  tc 
their  patrons  offerings  of  fruit,  and  occasionally  small 
pieces  of  silver.  The  knights,  senate,  and  citizens, 
sent  to  Augustus,  during  his  reign,  similar  offerings, 
and  in  his  absence,  even  deposited  them  in  the  Capi- 
tol. 


12  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

Little  more  than  the  memory  of  these  old  customs 
now  remains.  The  march  of  modern  refinement  has 
trodden  them  into  the  very  dust  of  a  by-gone  age. 
Tlie  antiquity  of  families,  and  the  pride  once  taken  in 
tlie  long  line  of  ancestral  virtues,  have  been  broken  , 
absolutely  lost  in  the  morbid  fashions  and  manners  of 
our  age  of  paint  and  inasquerade.  The  stern  wrin- 
kle-visaged  vorld  has  sadly  marred  those  sacred  an- 
niversaries of  the  heart.  The  chain  of  living  affec- 
tions, which  united  the  remotest  members  of  the  same 
family,  has  become  rusted,  broken,  unfit  to  conduct 
the  heart's  electric  fires  beyond  two  or  three  of  the 
nearest  links.  New  faces — new  customs — new  ideas 
of  refinement  and  social  rank,  have  dislodged  the  old 
ones.  Father,  Mother,  Home,  grow  old,  indeed,  but 
not  venerable  among  the  cherished  memories  of  the 
past.  The  love  of  gold  overlays  and  smothers  the 
love  of  kindred,  in  the  great  modern  steam-races  af- 
ter wealth  and  fame. 

We  say  again,  we  hail  these  Annuals  as  the  har- 
bingers of  better  days.  They  help  to  feed  the  altar- 
fires  of  Friendship  and  bind  the  family  of  Man  in 
lioly  brotherhood.  If  they  do  not  embody  the  highest 
forms  of  literature,  they  yet  speak  the  language  of 
love,  and  afibrd  the  surest  tokens  of  fricndsliip — //(/\v 
makes  them  valuable.  It  was  not  the  sprig  of  ver- 
vain, nor  the  handful  of  figs,  but  the  friendly  feeling, 
the  brotherhood,  which  they  expressed,  that  delighted 
the  iicart  of  tlie  old  Roman.  '  So  M'ith  the  whole 
family  of  Annuals,  while  they  are  designed  to  be  rich 
ill  poetry,  tliouglit,  f^-eling,  and  sentiment ;  yet  they 
an-  \alued  chicjly  for  the  kindly  emotions  and  cher- 


ANNUALS.  13 

ished  memories  which  they  awaken.  And  when  we 
find  Ihem  on  the  center  and  parlor  tables  of  our  kin- 
dred and  friends,  we  know  that  in  every  such  family 
are  the  loved  and  valued — hearts,  somewhere,  that 
vibrate  responsive  to  kindred  hearts. 


14  THE   LAITEEL   WEEATH. 


IDEAL  OF  A  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN. 

BY  MRS.  E.  D.  W.  m'KEE. 

How  beautiful  are  the  creations  of  the  poet's  fancy ! 
How  divinely  beautiful  is  womanhood  in  Milton's  Eve, 
"to  whom  all  other  things  seem  mean ;  or  in  her,  summed 
up,  contained."  We  love  Shakspeare's  Cordelia;  and 
we  reverence  the  Lady  Isabella ;  and  what,  in  the 
fictions  of  romance,  charms,  and  holds  us  spell-bound 
by  its  magic,  but  the  story  of  woman's  love,  and  wo- 
man's sorrow — the  fortunes  of  woman's  heart  ? 

But  why  are  these  beautiful  creations  confined  to 
the  world  of  poetry  and  fiction,  or  the  day  dreams  of 
young  lovers  ?  Why  do  not  such  M-omen  dwell  in  our 
households,  sit  at  our  tables,  minister  in  our  sickness, 
double  our  joy  in  prosperity,  and  sooth  us  by  their  an- 
gel sympathies  in  our  adversity  ?  Why  arc  not  all 
lovely,  since  God  and  Nature  have  made  them  so  ? 
With  what  wonderful  susceptibilities  has  the  Creator 
endowed  woman's  nature ;  what  depth,  vitality  and 
freshness  in  her  affections ;  how  lively  and  delicate 
her  sensibility  ;  how  noble  her  capacity  for  intellectu- 
al d((volopement.  Woman  was  not  only  the  last  ; 
but  tlie  best  and  fairest  exhibition  of  creative  love  and 
wisdom.  What  a  bud  of  promise  is  a  young  girl's 
nature,  folded  up  in  its  yet  undisclosed  loveliness.  And 
is  there  a  worm  in  the  bud,  which  consumes  its  beauty 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  15 

and  dewy  fragrance,  ere  it  blossoms  into  perfect  and 
beautiful  womanhood  ;  or  comes  not  the  blight  from 
toithout,  rather  than  within  ?  Instead  of  the  pure  sun- 
shine  of  Heaven  which  should  warm  and  expand  it  into 
bloom  ;  have  not  Society,  Art,  Education  and  Fashion 
thrown  around  it  a  vitiated  and  sickly  atmosphere,  till 
it  drinks  in  poison  at  every  pore  ?  Woman  is  always 
beautiful  and  s;ood  as  God  and  Nature  have  formed  her  : 
It  is  only  when  she  becomes  the  spoiled  creature  of 
Art  and  Fashion,  that  she  can  possibly  be  an  object, 
of  contempt  and  disgust.  She  is  not  only  the  light  of 
man's  life ;  but  the  very  poetry  of  his  earthly  exis- 
tence. Eden  was  not  Paradise  to  the  father  of  man- 
kind, till  waking  from  deep  and  solitary  sleep,  his  eye 
greeted  that  vision  of  beauty,  fresh  and  unsullied  from 
the  plastic  hand  of  her  Creator,  and  a  heaven-implant- 
ed instinct  told  him,  she  was  all  his  own.  The  world 
without  sunshine  would  not  to  him  have  been  so  dark, 
cheerless,  as  Eden  without  her  smile. — If  such  then 
be  the  constitution  of  Nature,  and  such  the  enviable 
position  which  the  Creator  has  given  to  woman  in  the 
social  and  domestic  relations  of  life ;  why  is  it  that 
history  tells  us  of  Xantippe,  of  Julia,  Livia  and  Ful- 
via ;  and  why  is  it  that  many  men  find  in  their  present 
experience,  their  pillow  as  thick  set  with  thorns,  as 
roses,  and  that  too,  by  female  hands  ? 

Why  is  it  that  beings  formed  oftimes  in  Nature's 
loveliest  mould  ;  from  whose  Cestus,  Venus  herself 
might  borrow  charms,  can  inspire  no  higher  sentiment, 
than  the  admiration  involuntarily  bestowed  on  a  pretty 
picture,  of  a  painted  butterfly  ?  Nay  worse  ;  why  do 
we  find  even  around  our  hearthstones,  in  the  sanctu- 


16  THE   LAUREL   WREATH. 

aries  of  domestic  love;  women  sustaining  the  tender 
and  holy  relations  of  sister,  wife,  and   mother,  yet 
destitute  of  those  noble  attributes  of  woman's  nature, 
which  make  the  light  and  life  of  a  happy  home  ?     We 
cannot  deny  ;  although  we  blush  to  own,  that  such 
there  are.     Neither  are  they  few.     Let  us  then  con- 
sider  some  of  the  influences  most  largely  and  effec- 
tively influential  in  the  formation  of  female  character, 
in  the  present  condhion  of  society,  and  inquire  if  it 
be  not  possible,  so  to  modify  these   influences,  that 
they  shall  uniformly  produce  more  desirable  results. 
These  influences  are  so  multiplied  and  varied;  some- 
times  so  uncertain  and  conflicting,  that  we  may  well 
be  anxious  as  to  the  result,  and  inquire  is  there  not 
some  principle,  which  we  may  introduce  into  our  prac- 
tical systems  of  Education,  to  regulate  and  harmonize 
them  all ;  a  principle  which  shall  be  influential  over 
these  influences  ;  which  can  guide  and  control  them ; 
giving  strength  and  efliciency  to  such  as  are  salutary, 
wliile  it  represses  or  exterminates,  such  as  are  injuri- 
ous.    Every  true  friend  of  the  young  who  has  watch- 
ed with  attention    and  interest  the    development  of 
youthful  character;  the  gradual  awakening  of  thought, 
the  rapid  outgrowth  of  fancy  and  fooling  in  tlie  heart, 
must  have  felt  deeply  and  painfully,  the  need  of  sonie- 
llung,to  give  the  right  moral  bias,  to  those  spontaneous 
activities  of  our  moral  and  intellectual  nature,  which 
will  work  and  develope  themselves,  under  every  con- 
dition of  humanity  ;  be  their  direction  right  or  wrong. 
Every  vigilant  parent  has  folt  this  need  ;  and  after 
anxious    inquiry    some   have    shouted  Euroka;   and 
forthwith  proceeded,  in  the  education  of  their  children. 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  17 

to  a  trial  of  this  new-found  philosopher's  stone,  which 
has  proved,  in  their  estimation,  to  transmute  to  gold  all 
the  baser  passions  and  tendencies  of  our  nature.    One 
says,  "My  daughter  must  be  well  educated.     Mental 
culture  must  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all  her  efforts. 
Her  intellectual  training  must  be  scientific,  exact  and 
thorough."     Another  says,  "I  do  not  admire  learned 
women.     I  desire  my  daughter  to  cultivate  a  delicate 
and  refined  taste,  quick  sensibilities,  ready  wit,  and 
pleasing  manners;  for  these  constitute   the  real  at- 
tractiveness of  woman."     A  third  says,  "I  don't  like 
a  woman  to  be  either  learned  or  sentimental.     My 
daughter  shall  be  neither  a  student  of  science  nor  a 
reader  of  novels  ;  but  I  will  have  her  accomplished  in 
every  elegant  art.     She  must  be  fitted  to  move  with 
distinction  in  elegant  and  polished  society.     For  this 
purpose  she  shall  study  the  modern  languages,  and 
have  the  advantages  of  foreign  travel,  and  consequent 
opportunities  to  learn  much  of  society  and  the  world." 
Another  parent  has  the  idea  that  society  is  injuri- 
ous, because  it  fosters  vanity,  and  an  inordinate  love 
of  admiration  and  expensive  pleasures  ;  and  such  an 
one  says,  "I  shall  keep  my  daughter  carefully  seclud- 
ed,  and  train  her  under  my  own  eye,  to  the  perform- 
ance of  household  duties,  and  the  cultivation  of  the 
domestic  virtues  ;  for  this  is,  after  all,  woman's  true 
sphere."     It  need  not  be  said  that  these  viewsof  educa- 
tion are  false  and    distorted ;  and   when  reduced  to 
practice,  can  produce  no  other  than  disastrous  results. 
To  select  one  bright  particular  star  in  the  firmament, 
and  determine  that  that  one  only  shall  shed  its  stellar 

influence  on  the  earth,  to  the  exclusion  of  sun  and 
B 


18  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

moon  and  other  stars,  is  not  more  absurd  and  imprac- 
ticable, than  to  attempt  to  mould  youthful  character, 
by  some  one  favorite  influence,  which  we  fancy  is  pro- 
ductive,  of  the  single  end  we  aim  at.  Parental  views 
and  wishes,  which  form  certainly  one  of  the  principal 
mfluences,  which  determine  the  particular  and  in- 
dividual developement  of  youthful  character,  are  not 
more  conflicting,  than  those  of  teachers,  to  whom  the 
intellectual  training  of  the  young,  is  more  especially 
committed,  in  our  schools,  academies,  and  private 
seminaries.  To  these  influences,  both  so  potent  ic 
the  development  of  character,  we  may  add  as  secon- 
dary, but  by  no  means  unimportant,  the  manners  and 
customs  of  social  and  domestic  life,  family  relation- 
ships, the  ties  of  friendship,  natural  capacity,  idiosyn- 
crasies  of  mental  and  moral  constitution;  besides  an 
infinity  of  others,  remote  and  indirect  it  is  true,  but 
which  do  nevertheless  help  to  produce  or  modify  the 
result. 

Millions  of  moral  causes  are  constantly  playing, 
unseen  and  unfclt,  over  the  entire  field  of  our  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  nature,  crossing,  thwarting,  and 
modifying  each  other  continually  ;  and  what  we  want, 
is  some  guiding  principle,  whicli  shall  bring  order  out 
of  this  disorder,  harmony  out  of  those  discords,  and 
evolve  finally,  a  character,  noble,  symmetrical  and 
beautiful.  Wc  want  a  just  and  true  z'dca/ of  female 
excellence;  because  in  the  formation  of  our  own 
character  and  habits,  and  of  those  who  come  within 
the  sphere  of  our  influence  wc  copy  this  ideal.  What 
tons,  seems  the  glory  and  pcrfcotion  of  our  nature; 
//tai,  wo  strive  for ;  to  that,   wo  gradually  and  insensi- 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  .19 

bly  assimilate  all  our  habitudes  of  thought  and  ac.ion. 
If  our  model  be  a  lad  one,  the  copy  will  be  equally 
defective  j  and  we  have  asserted,  what  few  will  be 
disposed  to  deny,  that  the  views  on  this  subject,  com- 
monly imbibed  from  education,  society,  parental  exam- 
pie,  and  academic  instruction,  are  radically  defective 
and  wrong.  What  then  is  the  remedy  ?  What  new 
element  of  culture  shall  we  introduce  into  our  systems 
of  female  education,  to  rectify  the  false  views  so 
generally  prevalent,  to  furnish  this  true  ideal,  so 
mccn  needed  ;  yet  a  need  so  little  felt,  so  seldom  ac- 
itnowiedgea. — The  splendid  creations  of  genius  are 
producea  only  by  imitation  of  perfect  models,  by  the 
masters.  Nations  and  generations  have  listened  en- 
tranced to  the  song  of  Homer  ;  and  it  was  by  imitating 
this  great  master  of  song,  that  Milton  gave  a  touch  to  the 
harp  of  poesy  which  shall  vibrate  through  the  ages. 
The  hand  of  Phidias  is  still  seen  in  the  marbles  of  the 
Parthenon,  where  it  has  struggled  to  express  in  stone, 
the  human  soul's  highest  conception  of  divine  beauty 
— the  beauty  of  the  immortal  Gods.  We  still  gaze 
upon  the  Venus  de  Medici,  and  wonder  that  all  behold- 
ers do  not  become  Pygmalions.  Raphael  has  thrown 
on  canvass  the  Transfiguration  of  Christ's  humanity ; 
nor  does  any  department  of  art  fail  to  furnish  a  model 
of  perfect  excellence,  to  those  who  desire  to  practice 
Its  theory,  and  reproduce  its  sublime  creations.  And 
when  we  strive  to  fashion  the  woman's  soul  within  us ; 
to  bring  it  in  contour  and  proportion  to  a  beautiful  and 
harmonious  developement,  must  we  strike  at  random, 
and  struggle  on  in  the  dark  without  a  guide  ?  Does 
the  moral  world  furnish  no  pattern  of  human  excel- 


20  THE    LAUKEL   WREATH. 

lence,  after  which  we  may  shape  ourselves,  and  mould 
our  moral  lineaments  ?  Is  it  possible,  so  to  conduct 
the  process  of  a  young  girl's  education,  as  to  keep  al- 
ways before  her  mind's  eye,  the  pattern  of  what  she 
ought  to  be ;  of  what  she  must  every  day  strive  to  be- 
come  ?  To  what  means  or  element  of  culture,  must 
we  give  prominence  and  importance,  to  secure  this  re- 
sult ?  Tlie  answer  is  easy.  Christianity  furnishes 
principles  of  culture,  which  if  judiciously  applied  in 
our  systems  of  female  education,  would  make  wo- 
man's nature,  what  it  was  before  her  hand  plucked 
Eden's  fatal  apple ;  "and  thus  brought  death  with  all 
our  woe." 

We  anticipate  the  reader's  smile  at  the  announce, 
mont  of  this  fact,  which  is  so  trite  and  commonplace, 
that  it  has  almost  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  truism; 
but  let  those  who  smile,  remember,  that  although  our 
xheories  of  education,  arc  in  the  main,  riglit,  and  do 
recognize  the  importance  of  moral  culture  ;  that  our 
practice,  is  nevertheless  all  wrong ;  and  altliough 
much  has  been  said  and  written  on  the  subject  of 
female  education  ;  and  well  written  too,  it  has  left  the 
"ractical  bearings  and  workings  of  our  educational 
systems,  unchanged.  Let  us  then  reiterate  this  truth, 
and  ever  keep  it  before  the  popular  mind,  till  it  re- 
sponds ;  that  all  systems  of  education  are  essentially 
erroneous  and  defective,  which  do  not  draw  their  fun- 
damental elements  of  culture,  from  the  religion  and 
morality  of  Christianity;  and  that  there  can  be  no 
true  womanly  beauty,  except  that  which  is  developed 
tlirough  its  holy  and  ennobling  influences.  Young 
has  Well  said,  "the  Christian,  is  the  highest  style  of 


IDEAL   OF   A    CHRISTIAN   WOMAN  21 

man."     It  is  equally  true,  that  the  Christian  woman, 
is  the  highest  style  of  woman ;  more  divine,  because 
more  holy,  than  any  goddess  of  Olympus. — We  are 
not  sure  that  the  gentlemen-puppets,  who  figure  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  dance    about   the    re\gning  belle, 
like  moths  flutterinsj  around  a  candle,  till  their  winjjs 
are  scorched,  and  they  tumble   headlong  to  ruin— we 
are  not  sure,  that  such,  will  sympathize  with  the  sen- 
timent we  have  uttered  ;  but  every  man,  with  a  man- 
ly intellect;  and  a    man's  heart;  whatever  be   his 
speculative   views  of  Christianity ;    even  though  he 
were  an  infidel,  will    acknowledge,  that  no  system  of 
morals  extant ;  nor  all  the  combined  lessons  of  hu- 
man wisdom,  can  form  a  woman's  heart  and  mind,  af- 
ter so  pure  and  beautiful  a  model,    as  that  which  is 
offered  to  us,  in  the  life  and  teachings  of  Christ.  Nay 
more,  if  all  human  goodness  and  moral  beauty  should 
perish  out  of  the  world,  and  the  very  memory  of  them 
be  lost  to  mankind ;  we  should  still  have,  in  the  char- 
acter of  Jesus,  and  the  words  which  he  uttered,  the 
immaculate  essence,  of  all  goodness,  and  all  virtue ; 
both  human  and   divine. — But  we  are  told   by  the 
worldly-wise,  that  the  experiment  of  educating  w^omen 
religiously  has  often  been  tried;  and  the  result,  has 
as.often  been  failure.     Nothing  on  earth,  say  they,  is 
so  intolerable,  as  the  fanatacism  and  cant  of  these  fe- 
male pietists,  unless  it  be  the  literary  preteiLsions  of 
a  Blue.     Said  a  father   recently,  "my  daughter  has 
become  a  perfect  little  Pharisee,  through  the  influence 
of  the   H.  Seminary.     I  shall   be   careful  in    future 
where  I  send  my  children  to  be  educated.     Underthe 
conviction,  that  retrenchment,  in  dress  and  family  ex- 


22  THE    LAUKEL    WREATH. 

penditure,  is  an  imperative  Christian  ciity,  she  has 
forsworn  forever,  silks  and  jewels,  and  wears  only 
calico.  She  has  abandoned  the  study  of  music,  be- 
cause all  showy  accomplishments,  are  inconsistent 
with  the  humility  and  lowliness  of  spirit,  which  ought 
to  characterize  a  Christian  woman.  She  has  become 
an  active  and  prominent  member  of  the  Missionary, 
Bible,  Temperance,  Anti-Slavery  and  Moral  Reform 
Societies ;  and  if  her  power,  were  in  any  degree  com- 
mensurate with  her  will,  she  would  revolutionize  so- 
ciety, and  turn  the  world  upside  down,  with  her  absurd 
enthusiasm.  I  shall  send  her  to  Madame  D.,  where 
I  hope  she  will  acquire  more  rational  views  of  religion 
in  place  of  these  monstrous  absurdities."  Unfortunate 
father ;  and  still  more  unhappy  daughter  ; — how  ut- 
terly, had  both  mistaken,  tlie  true  ideal  of  a  Christian 
woman ;  and  the  influences  which  constitute  a  truly 
Christian  education.  No  good  and  modest  woman  can 
have  any  sympathy  with  those  of  her  seXj  who  turn 
bold  and  noisy  public  reformers,  of  the  vices  and  fasli- 
ionable  follies  of  society  ;  neither  can  a  true  hearted 
Cliristian  woman  covet  that  formal  and  ostentatious 
activity,  in  any  department  of  Christian  benevolence, 
which  causes  her  necessarily  to  parade  her  religious 
sentiments,  and  spiritual  aflections,  before  the  eager 
and  irreverent  gaze,  of  the  public  eye.  Her  religion 
is  the  cherished  and  hidden  life  of  her  soul.  There 
slie  garners  up  her  purest  and  warmest  aifections,  and 
gives  them  all  to  God.  SIic  moves  gently  and  noise- 
lessly in  the  daily  walks  and  relations  of  life  ;  undis- 
tinguished from  other  women,  save  that  her  hand  is 
readier  for  every  kind  decdj  her  smile  more  cheering 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  23 

and  benign  when  it  falls  on  the  children  of  misfortune 
and  want;  and  the  music  of  her  voice  softer  and  sweeter; 
because  it  is  the  utterance  of  a  pure,  gentle,  and  tran- 
quil soul.  The  applauses  of  the  French  people 
sounded  not  in  the  ears  of  Bonaparte  so  sweet  as  the 
voice  of  Josephine,  and  that  Empress  was  charming; 
although  nature  had  not  been  to  her,  prodigal  of 
charms.  It  was  often  remarked  of  her,  that  without 
being  beautiful,  she  produced  upon  beholders  the  ef- 
fect of  beauty.  Thus  it  is  possible,  for  the  Christian 
women,  to  make  herself  admired  and  loved,  and  even 
reverenced  by  those  who  know  her  truly  ;  by  the  mor- 
al and  intellectual  beauty  expressed  in  her  conversa- 
tion and  outer  life  ;  each  of  which  are  significant  of 
the  latent  beauty  of  the  mind  within.  It  is  possible  for 
a  woman  to  whom  nature  has  denied  every  personal 
grace,  to  become  religiously  beautiful,  and  that  too 
without  singularity,  hypocrisy  or  cant.  She  may  min- 
gle with  other  women  in  the  great  thoroughfares  of  so- 
ciety ;  partake  of  the  innocent  amusements  and 
festivities  of  social  life;  cultivate  the  elegant  arts  ; 
gather  within  her  home,  or  around  her  person,  those 
adornments  and  elegancies,  which  gratify  a  cultivated 
taste  ;  and  enjoy  them  all,  while  she  yet  rises  superioi 
and  above  all,  to  find  her  truest  and  highest  enjoyment, 
the  realization  of  her  dearest  hopes,  and  the  true  per- 
fection of  her  nature,  in  the  cultivation  of  spiritual  af 
fections. — In  the  gayest  circles  she  may  hear  andenjo)' 
the  playfulness  of  wit;  the  keenness  of  satire;  the 
encounter  of  mind  with  mind,  and  the  flashings  of  soul 
meeting  soul,  in  the  interchange  of  feeling  and 
thought;  and  yet  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  and  enjoying 


24  THE   LAUREL   WREATH. 

all  this,  her  spirit  may  be  alone.  The  human  soul  can 
be  isolated  by  the  force  of  high  and  heavenly  thoughts 
when  the  body  is  jostled  in  a  crowd ;  for  a  hermit, 
dwelling  alone  in  the  deep  heart  of  a  forest,  is  not 
more  secluded,  than  the  soul,  which  hides  within  it, 
deep  thoughts  and  spiritual  communings  with  the  In- 
visible.— Above  the  glare  of  a  thousand  lights;  the 
melody  of  tuned  instruments  and  song,  and  the  foot- 
falls of  the  giddy  dance ;  yes  above  the  heaven  itself, 
her  thought  rises,  and  dwells  alone  with  God.  Her 
soul  hears  God ;  and  sees  the  Invisible.  Grosser  na- 
tures talk  and  speculate  about  religion — she  feds  it. — 
She  lives  habitually  on  the  confines  of  two  worlds, 
where  the  material  meets  the  spiritual;  and  in  these 
moments  of  interior  solitude  and  stillness,  her  Imagi- 
nation is  awed  by  the  solemn  shadows,  cast  over  it 
from  the  spirit  land.  Then  unutterable  tlioughts,  and 
awful  imaginings  visit  her;  till  becoming  familiar, 
she  invites  their  stay.  Sometimes  by  the  force  of  her 
own  thoughtfulncss  she  rests  motionless,  with  fixed  but 
vacant  gaze,  till  consciousness  itself  vanishes,  and  her 
very  inner  life  and  being  seem  melting  away  into  the 
Infinite.  Then  her  heart  prays — her  lips  seldom. 
When  her  soul  is  full  and  heaving  witli  the  impulses 
of  such  divine  communion,  the  lips  move  in  wordless 
sympathy,  but  no  audible  sound  passes  those  silent  por- 
tals of  imprisoned  thought.  Such  is  the  experience  of 
a  true  Christian  woman — such  the  high  spirituality  of 
her  ideas  and  contemplations;  but  with  these  joys  a 
stranger intermcddleth  not;  even  the  cherished  com- 
panion  of  lier  bosom  ;  the  sharer  of  lier  earthly  joys 
anrt  sorrows  is  a  stranger  in  the  spiritual  arajnaof  her 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  25 

soul.  He  only  knows  that  pure  and  good  thoughts, 
and  all  gentle  and  loving  affections  dwell  there,  because 
they  are  expressed  in  her  acted  thoughts.  If  we  could 
make  the  young  understand  tliis ;  if  we  could  make 
parents  and  instructors  of  youth  understand ;  that 
Christian  education  does  not  consist  in  a  formal  incul- 
cation of  moral  precepts ;  nor  yet  in  loading  the  child- 
ish memory  with  Creeds  and  Catechisms ;  but  in  a 
careful  oversight  of  the  workings  of  thought,  fancy, 
and  feeling  in  the  awaking  faculties  of  the  youthful 
mind ;  and  a  constant  vigilance  to  direct  them  accord- 
ing to  the  principles  of  eternal  rectitude  and  virtue; 
what  a  change  it  would  work  in  the  ordinary  routine 
of  family  and  academic  education. — No  theoretic  in- 
struction in  systems  of  religion  and  morals  can  avail 
any  thing.  '  It  is  the  teaching  of  example  which  we 
want.  We  want  a  model,  to  place  before  the  forming, 
but  yet  plastic  minds  of  the  young ;  and  say,  "Be 
like  thatJ'  The  Infinite  mind — the  author  of  all  minds 
understands  intimately  the  mental  and  spiritual  organi- 
zation of  His  earthly  children ;  and  the  laws  of  in- 
tellectual and  moral  development,  which  regulate  the 
wonderful  and  complexmachinery  of  the  human  soul  ; 
and  has  His  divine  Omniscience  anticipated  this  pres- 
sing want  of  our  humanity  ?  Has  He  given  us  such  a 
model,  or  only  taught  us  in  His  Revelation,  didactic 
precepts  of  morality  ?  Did  not  the  life  and  misson  of 
Jesus  respond  to  the  deepest  want  of  our  moral  nature 
— to  the  cravings  of  our  most  imperative  spiritual 
instincts  ?  What  Grecian  Statuary  is  in  the  world  of 
'irt,  the  character  and  teachings  of  Christ  are,  in  the 

moral  world.     The  marbles  of  the  PartJienon  are  per- 

B 


26  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

feet  models  of  human  beauty,  idolized  and  deified, — 
the  material  embodiment  of  man's  highest  conceptions 
of  physical  beauty;  and  in  the  like  manner  the  life  of 
Christ  is  a  sensible  exhibition  of  man's  highest  idealized 
conception  of  moral  excellence.  Many  splendid  and 
dazzling  apparitions  of  virtue ;  have,  in  the  ages 
which  are  past,  flashed  out  from  the  dark  back-ground 
of  our  fallen  humanity;  but  they  were  evanescent 
and  shapeless  meteors,  without  symmetry  or  beauty. 
In  the  history  of  the  great  and  good  of  past  ages  we 
have  the  separate  elements  of  spiritual  beauty  ;  but 
the  individual  combinations  are  sometimes  monstrous. 
For  instance,  we  have  the  predominance  of  patriotism 
in  the  moral  portraitures  of  Aristedcs,  Cincinnatus, 
and  Hannibal — manly  daring  in  that  of  Leonidas, 
Alexander,  and  Caesar ;  and  the  faculty  of  divine  con- 
templation, in  Socrates  aqd  Plato  ;  but  in  Christ  every 
excellence  and  virtue,  both  human  and  divine,  are 
united  in  perfect  concordance  and  symmetry.  Where 
then  shall  we  look  in  the  training  of  the  young  ;  and 
particularlyof  young  women,  for  a  formative  influence, 
at  once  so  perfect  and  so  powerfully  efficient  as  this. 
Objections  may  be  made  to  these  views  of  education, 
on  the  ground,  that  they  are  too  vague  and  impractica- 
ble; that  while  they  insist  upon  the  absolute  necessity 
of  forming  youthful  charact('r  after  a  Christian  model  ; 
they  do  notspecify  with  suflicient  minuteness  of  detail, 
the  manner,  in  which  the  desired  influence  is  to  be  ap- 
plied in  the  practical  business  of  education.  The 
writer  has  not  room  in  the  limits  assigned  to  this  essay 
to  enter  into  such  details;  but  if  the  reader  still  asks, 
ill  wliat   departments  of  education,    it  is    j)ossible  to 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  27 

make  the  power  of  Christianity  more  directly  influen- 
tial than  at  present ;  it  may  be  replied  ;  that  it  is  not 
only  desirable,  but  possible,  both  to  develope  the  mind, 
and  mould  the  manners,  in  accordance   with  its  spirit 
and  precepts.     Parents  and    Instructors  of  youth  too 
generally  regard  the  precepts  of  Christianity,  as  capa- 
ble of  being  brought  to  bear,  only  in  the  formation  of 
correct   theoretic    views  of  right  and  wrong,  in  the 
minds  of  the  young  ;  and  its  Institutions,  as  the  means 
of  cultivating    their  religious   susceptibilities   only. 
They  do  not  consider  thai  it  is  possible  to  draw  from 
Christianity,  such    views    and  motives,  as  shall   urge 
the  young  mind  forward  in  the  acquisition  of  scientific 
truth  ;  and  even  render  intei-esting  the  dry  details  of 
academic  instruction.     It  is  because  the  motives  usual- 
ly placed  before  a  young  girl's  mind,  to  incite  her  to 
diligence  in  the  pursuit  of  literary  and  scientific  ac- 
quirements, are  so  sordid  and  secular,  that  she  pursues 
her  studies  in  that  spirit ;  and  that  even  when  success- 
ful as  a  student,  her  acquirements  are  so  technical  and 
formal,  that  they  can  have  no  tendency  to  ennoble  and 
refine  her  nature.     She  is  told  she  must  study  because 
it  is  a  burning  disgrace  to  be   ignorant ;  because  she 
cannot  appear  to  advantage  in  society  without  at  least 
a  moderate  degree  of  intelligence  ;  but  rarely  is  she 
pointed  to   the  reflex    influence  of  Science,  upon  the 
mind  itself;  enlarging,  invigorating,  and  ennobling  all 
its  powers.     Let  her.  mind  once  grasp  the  idea  ;  and 
swell  with  the  inspiration  of  the  thought,  that  the  study 
of  natural  science  is  the  tracing  in  our  own  mind  the 
thought  of  God  when  He  planned  the  Universe — that 
History  is  but  the  record  of  what  God  has  done,  and 


28  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

enabled  or  sufiered  man  to  do  upon  the  great  theatre 
of  human  action — that  the  Literature  of  past  ages  is  a 
Daguerrcotyped  view  of  the  mind  of  dead  nations; 
<vho  have  bequeathed  to  us  their  living  thoughts,  em- 
balmed in  language ;  and  she  will  love  study  for  its 
own  sake.  She  will  reverence  science,  that  tireless 
swift  winged  messenijer,  which  like  Noah's  dove  has 
gone  forth  from  the  earthly  ark  in  which  we  float  im- 
prisoned ;  to  explore  and  bring  us  some  green  leaves, 
from  those  vast  undiscovered  continents  of  being,  those 
undreamed  of  islands  of  existence,  which  enliven  and 
diversify  the  vast  expanse,  around  us,  but  beyond  us. 
Having  imbibed  such  views,  science  will  thenceforth 
be  to  her,  a  high  and  holy  thing ;  because  the  priest 
and  interpreter  of  nature's  mysteries.  The  wisdom 
of  God  will  thenceforth  seem  to  her  as  it  is;  a  pro- 
found deep— a  vast  ocean,  filling  the  immensity  of  the 
universe,  "shoreless,  fathomless  and  sublime.  Science 
has  dived  but  just  below  the  apparent  surface,  bring- 
ing up  from  here  and  there  a  pearl  at  intervals  of 
ages.  Revelation  has  brought  from  a  profoundor 
depth  the  "pearl  of  great  price;"  but  wliat  tiiought  of 
Man  or  Angel  has  computed  tlic  priceless  treasures  of 
the  infinite  deep  beyond  ?  Human  thought  is  more 
rapid  and  extensive  than  the  lightnings  of  Hravon  ; 
yet  imagination  tires  and  falters,  when  under  tlie  in- 
sj)iration  and  conduct  of  science,  we  send  her  fortli  to 
those  (lark  corners  of  the  universe,  where  the  Spirit 
of  God  yet  brooding;  bringeth  fortli  light,  life  luid 
beauty,  from  primeval  Chaos,  and  the  silent  void. — 
It  is  in  expanding  and  elevating  the  mind  by  such 
views  as  these,  of  the  extent  and  glory  of  the  universe ; 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  29 

and  the  power  and  goodness  of  the   great  God,  who 

works  in  all,  and  through  all ;  that  the    great  uses  of 

science,  as  a  discipline  of  the  human  faculties,  consists. 

And  what  studies  or  pursuits  can   like  these,  enoble 

Woman's  nature  :  divorce  her  so  effectually  from  the 

idle  amusements  and  fripperies  of  Fashion;  and  make 

her  so  entirely  worthy   Man's  reverence    and  love. — 

By  viewing  scientific  and  literary  acquisitions  in  the 

light  in  which  they  have  been  presented  above,  it  will 

be  readily  seen  that  they  have  a  religious  aspect ;  and 

that  the  moral    tendency  of  science   thus  pursued  is 

highly  salutary  in  its  influence  upon  the  female  mind. 

Without  the  careful  inculcation  of  such  sentiments  the 

scientific  woman  is  in  danger  of  becoming  a  disgusting 

pedant. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  formation  of  moral  principles, 

and  the  cultivation  of  the  religious  susceptibilities  only, 
nor  yet  in  conducting  the  process  of  scientific  culture 
alone,  that  we  may  bring  Christianity  to  bear  upon 
the  education  of  the  young.  It  ought,  also,  to  mould 
their  manners.  There  is  a  false  school  of  politeness 
established  in  modern  society.  There  are  many  fe- 
male Chesterfields,  who  take  especial  pains  to  impress 
the  minds  of  their  daughters  and  wards  with  the  er- 
roneous idea,  that  politeness  consists  in  a  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  the  acknowledged  rules  of  etiquette, 
and  the  conventional  forms  of  polished  society,  coupled 
with  a  graceful  carriage  of  the  person,  which  may  be 
learned  from  the  dancing  master  or  posture  maker. 
This  style  of  politeness  suits  well  the  forced  and  arti- 
ficial display  of  the  ball-room,  or  the  gay  saloons  of 
stupid  and  heartless  fashion ;  but  in  daily  family  ia- 


30  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

tercourse,  and  the  ordinary  circumstances  and  rela- 
tions of  life,  it  is  a  miserables  substitute,  for  that  un- 
affected simplicity,  gentleness  and  benevolence  of  dis- 
position, which  prompts  its  possessor  at  all  times,  in 
all  places,  and  with  all  conditions  of  men,  to  observe 
the  golden  rule  of  Christianity,  of  domg  unto  others, 
as  we  would  that  they  should  do  unto  us.  The  daub 
and  paint  with  ■which  a  faded  beauty  strives  to  imi- 
tate the  fairness  and  bloom  of  youth,  is  not  more  re- 
volting to  a  person  of  cultivated  taste  and  sensibility, 
than  that  false  and  tawdy  mannerism,  which  passes 
with  the  vulgar,  for  elegance  of  manners.  But  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  the  false  and  conven- 
tional politeness  which  is  taught  by  rules,  does  on 
some  occasions  appear  to  great  advantage  beside  the 
true  ;  and  totally  eclipses  it,  (as  gilt  sometimes  shines 
brighter  than  solid  gold;)  but  there  are  other  occasions, 
on  which  it  will  inevitably  betray  its  artificiality.  The 
same  friction  which  tarnishes  gilding,  and  exposes  the 
baseness  of  the  metal  beneath,  only  serves  to  add  lus- 
tre to  pure  gold ;  and  thus  in  the  friction  of  ordinary 
domestic  life,  the  virtues  of  the  heart,  which  consti- 
tute true  politeness,  do  but  shine  brighter,  and  glow 
more  warmly ;  while  its  false  counterpart  grows  cold 
and  deadens.  The  slightest  observation  of  the  man- 
ners of  a  lady  towards  her  servants,  and  all  other 
persons  who  are  her  inferiors  in  social  position,  is  suf- 
ficient to  determine  whether  she  is  a  truly  polite  and 
well-bred  christian  woman  ;  because  a  coarse  mind  is 
nowhere  so  apt  to  betray  itself,  as  ic  the  vulgar  inso- 
lence and  heartless  severity,  w  ith  which  it  dares  to 
frown  on  all  hcncalh  it :  and  the  fulsome  flattery  and 


IDEAL    OF    A    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  31 

sycophancy,  with  which  it  fawns  on  all  above  it.  In 
the  estimation  of  a  woman  who  has  learned  in  the 
school  of  Ciirist,  the  divine  doctrine  of  human  broth- 
erhood, none  are  noble,  and  none  are  mean,  by  the 
mere  force  of  social  circumstances  over  which  they 
have  no  control.  Her  meanest  servant  is  to  her,  a 
woman;  with  the  tender  sensibilities  and  gushing  af- 
fections of  woman's  nature,  and  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land  is  no  more.  The  sensibilities  of  the  "femme  de 
chambre,"  who  curls  her  hair,  or  ties  her  shoe,  are  as 
sacred  in  her  eyes,  as  though  her  head  bore  a  crown, 
and  her  hand  wielded  a  sceptre.  As  she  acknowledg- 
es no  one  above  her,  except  such  as  are  more  exalted 
by  virtue ;  so  she  feels  none  beneath  her,  but  those 
whom  sin  has  degraded ;  and  upon  such  falls  her 
tear  of  pity.  The  woman  whose  mind  and  heart  have 
been  formed  under  such  influences  as  we  have  at- 
tempted to  describe,  is  the  glory  of  her  sex  —  a  bles- 
sing to  the  world  —  and  a  bright  and  beautiful  orna- 
ment  to  the  family  in  whose  bosom  she  has  been  rear- 
ed. If  a  wife,  "the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely 
trust  in  her,  so  that  he  shall  have  no  fear  of  spoil." 
If  a  mother,  "her  children  rise  up  and  call  her  bles- 
sed." And  blessed  indeed,  is  the  true  christian  wo- 
man, whose  ideal  we  have  attempted  faintly  to  sketch 
in  these  pages ;  more  to  be  envied,  and  more  worthy 
of  imitation,  than  all  the  women  who  have  lived  in 
song  and  story  —  whose  names  the  trump  of  fame 
has  sounded  through  the  world.  The  woman  who 
endeavors  to  shape  her  being  after  the  christian  ideal, 
need  fear  no  rivals  in  her  loveliness ;  nor  the  decay  of 
her  charms  by  age  ;  for  the  beauty  of  the  true  christ- 


32  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

ian  woman  is  eternal  and  fadeless,  like  that  of  the 
stars,  wliich  have  shed  their  light  for  ages,  yet  retain 
their  primal  glory.  Though  many-daughters  of  Eve 
have  done  virtuously ;  and  some  reared  even  under 
the  dark  shadows  of  Paganism,  have  shone  out  bright 
and  beautiful  from  the  surroundina;  darkness  of  their 
age  and  clime,  yet  the  humblest  christian  woman  out- 
shines them  all ;  and  though  like  the  desert  rose,  she 
blush  unseen,  or  like  the  diamond  hidden  in  the  mine, 
she  neither  shines  or  dazzles,  yet  she  possesses  an  in- 
herent worth  and  beauty,  which  equals,  and  even 
transcends  that  of  the  brightest  and  most  beautiful  or- 
naments of  the  historic  page.  She  may  not  be  able, 
like  Cornelia,  to  send  her  name  linked  with  that  of  the 
Gracchi,  down  the  tide  of  time,  to  coming  generations; 
but  if  she  is  a  mother,  she  can,  like  Cornelia,  cherish 
her  children  as  priceless  jewels  ;  committed  to  earthly 
caskets,  and  entrusted  to  her  vigilance  and  care,  to 
keep,  intact,  unspotted  and  unsullied  in  their  heavenly 
beauty,  by  the  damps  and  soils  of  earth.  She  cannot 
be  Paulina  and  bleed  with  Seneca ;  but  if  she  is  a 
wife,  she  can  every  day  test  the  fervor  and  devoted- 
ness  of  her  conjugal  afTection,  by  a  thousand  acts  of 
self-sacrifice  and  tender  assiduity. 

Her  injured  honor  may  never  call  her,  like  Lucre- 
tia,  to  plunge  a  dagger  into  licr  own  heart's  warm  life- 
blood,  as  it  leaps  wildly  and  tiirobbingly  along  its  liv- 
ing channel-ways;  but  if  she  has  a  true  woman's  soul, 
lier  brow  will  crimson,  and  her  heart  recoil,  at  tliouiriit 
of  impurity  and  shame. 

New  York. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A    YOUKG  ARTI.«5T.      33 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  \RT1ST, 


BY  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 


How  shall  we  mourn  thee,  gifted  one  ?  How  wail 
The  fate  that  snatched  thee  thus  in  youth  away, 

Ere  in  life's  wreath  one  rose  bud  had  grown  pale, 
Ere  one  dark  cloud  had  dimmed  thine  early  day  ? 

How  speak  the  sorrow  that  our  bosoms  thrilled, 

When  death  the  pulses  of  thy  warm  heart  stilled  ? 

How  shall  we  mourn  thee  ?     Thou  wert  of  'the  few. 

Who  walk  the  earth  in  majesty  of  mind. 
Genius  had  given  its  treasures  to  thy  view, 
.    The  painter's  eye,  the  poet's  thought  combined, 
The  soul  to  image  all  things  pure  and  bright. 
The  skill  to  give  them  to  our  daily  sight. 

Alas  !  that  hand  its  cunning  has  forgot,  • 

That  eye  is  closed  upon  all  earthly  things, 

On  thy  dull  ear  the  voice  of  praise  falls  not ; 
Thy  heart  is  cold  to  love's  soft  whisperings  ; 

Called  from  life's  feasts  too  soon,  thou  hast  but-quaffed 

Of  love,  joy,  fame,  one  deep  and  final  draught. 

Like  the  Olympian  victor,  thou  hadst  won 

The  goal  of  all  thy  hopes,  and,  in  the  hour 

Wlien  toil  was  past  and  glory  had  begun, 
C  B2 


34  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

There  came  the  King  of  terrors  in  his  power, 
And,  at  his  touch,  thou  didst  in  dust  lay  down 
The  youthful  head,  girt  with  its  laurel  crown. 

"Thy  sun  went  down  at  noon,"  but  not  in  clouds, 
And  while  we  watch,  jn  tears,  its  swift  decline, 

We  know  tliat  tho'  death's  awful  darkness  shrouds 
Its  brightness  now,  yet  it  shall  once  more  shine 

Among  the  Hosts  of  Heaven,  and  we  who  bear 

Life's  lessons  in  our  hearts  may  hope  to  meet  thee  there. 


«^ 


THE   DESERTED.  35 


THE    DESERTED 


BY  S.  D.  B. 


RoNALDO  Edgarson  was  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy 
and  respectable  merchant.  He  was  a  youth  of  gen- 
ius and  promise,  and  his  parents  resolved  to  educate 
him  for  the  bar.  No  pains  or  expense  were  spared  to 
develope  the  powers  of  Ws  mind ;  and  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  he  left  the  parental  roof  for  college.  His 
young  heart  bounded  with  a  generous  and  lofty  ambi- 
tion, and  he  devoted  himself,  with  a  fond  enthusiasm, 
to  his  studies.  He,  at  once,  assumed  an  enviable  po- 
sition among  his  competitors  for  literary  honors.  He 
was  a  favorite  of  the  Muses,  and  showed  a  mind  feel- 
ingly alive  to  all  that  was  beautiful  in  nature,  or  splen- 
did in  imagery,  and,  like  Byron,  he  seemed  destined 
to  charm  millions  by  the  power  of  song.  Three  years 
of  his  college  life  had  passed,  and  his  bosom  began  to 
heave  with  a  thousand  glowing,  noble  and  never  yet 
expressed  aspirations,  as  he  saw  himself  approaching 
the  termination  of  his  studies.  He  could  fancy  him- 
self at  the  bar,  actually  swaying,  at  will,  the  minds  of 
a  jury.  Kindling  to  rapture,  or  exciting  to  fury  the 
multitude  who  hung  entranced  upon  his  manly  elo- 
quence. 

At  this  season,  when  all  was  hope,  and  every  ener- 
gy of  his  soul  was  bursting  into  expression,  he  receiv- 
ed the  following  letter  from  his  father. 


86  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

My  dear  Son : — 

I  am  ruined  !     The  lots  and  larije 

house    in street,  are  to  be  sold  to-morrow,  at 

eleven  o'clock,  to  the  highest  bidder  !  Our  household 
furniture  and  personal  property  are  all  levied,  and 
must  be  sold.  Your  father  is  a  bankrupt !  I  was  per- 
suaded to  become  surety  for  your  Uncle ;  and  he  has 
failed  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  I  am  overwhelmed  with  perplexity  and 
♦rouble.  Your  dear  mother  seems  to  bear  the  loss 
much  better  than  I  can.  I  know  not  what  you  will  do 
—  I  see  no  prospect  of  being  able  to  carry  you  through 
your  studies.  I  fear  you  will  be  obliged  to  leave  col- 
lege, and  rely  upon  your  own  resources  for  a  support. 
Your  atfectionate  father,  in  affliction. 


This  letter  was  like  a  death-kncll  to  the  hopes  of 
young  Ronaldo.  His  lips  quivered,  and  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  gave  it  a  second  perusal.  It  was  his 
father's  hand,  and  there  could  be  no  mistake  j  and  he 
felt  his  spirits  die  within  him.  The  briglit  and  beau- 
tiful images  which  fancy  had  sketched  were  seen  to 
pass  away  like  mists  before  the  morning.  The  future 
looked  bleak  and  barren  ;  the  path  to  fame  seemed 
hedged  by  insurmountable  obstacles.  Unused  to  dis- 
appointment, he  threw  himself  upon  his  couch  and 
gave  free  vent  to  his  feelings.  At  length,  a  new  im- 
pulse  visited  him,  and  he  felt  iiis  energies  revive,  as  if 
ready  for  some  mighty  and  heroic  achiovcmcnt.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  gave  utterance  to  the  Roman 
motto,  "  Perseverentia  vincent  omnia,"  He  was  in- 
spired witli  fresh  courage,  and  he  resolved  to  go  into 


I  THE    DESERTED.  37 

one  of  the  quiet,  country  villages  of  New  England, 
and  engage  in  the  business  of  teaching,  until  he  should 
acquire  the  means  to  complete  his  studies. 

With  the  best  recommendations  from  his  professors, 
lie  found  no  difficulty  in  procuring  a  desirable  and  lu- 
crative situation.  His  firm  mind,  his  manly  person, 
his  engaging  and  amiable  manners  secured  the  confi- 
dence  not  only  of  his  patrons,  but  the  admiration  and 
respect  of  all.  No  young  man  in  the  place,  was 
more  highly  esteemed,  none  whose  society  was  more 
eagerly  sought. 

If  a  party  was  announced,  one  of  the  first  inquiries 
was,  "  is  Mr.  Edgarson  to  be  present  ?"  He  was  the 
charm  of  every  circle,  the  center  of  attraction,  the 
hero  of  the  place.  He  could  captivate  without  an  ef- 
fort, and  control  without  seeming  to  conquer.  Even 
the  young  gentlemen,  while  they  looked  upon  his  rising 
popularity,  with  some  degree  of  jealousy  and  envy, 
were  compelled  to  speak  well  of  him.  Amid  the  at- 
tractions of  female  loveliness,  Ronaldo  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  guarding  his  heart,  and  for  a  time,  he  was  suc- 
cessful. But  Emma  was  accomplished  and  beautiful. 
She  had  been  educated  at  one  of  the  first  schools  in 
New  England,  and  her  mind  was  stored  with  all  that 
was  rich,  bright  or  attractive.  Having  mingled  but  lit- 
tle with  the  world,  she  retained  an  artless  simplicity  of 
manners ;  aiid  a  grace,  as  if  it  were  caught  from 
Heaven,  breathed"  in  every  tone,  hallowed  every  af- 
fection, and  shone  in  every  action.  And  Ronaldo, 
in  spite  of  himself,  loved  her,  and  felt  it  a  charm,  a 
blessing  and  a  vision  of  gladness  to  stay  in  her  pres- 
ence.    After  the  toils  of  tlie  school-room  were  over. 


38  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

at  the  close  of  each  day,  he  found  his  face,  almost 
unconsciously  turned  toward  the  quiet  residence  of 
her  father.  It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  country 
scats  of  New  England,  which  arrest  the  eye  of  the 
traveler  as  he  sees  the  snow-white  walls  and  gamble- 
roof  peering  amid  a  forest  of  shrubbery  and  flowers. 
Here  Emma  lived,  the  idol  of  her  parents  and  the  ob- 
ject of  universal  admiration  to  all  who  knew  her. — 
She  had  never  loved,  but  somehow  she  felt  a  strange 
sensation  as  she  listened,  daily,  at  night-fall,  for  the 
approaching  footsteps  of  the  much  admired  Ronaldo. 
They  both  had  a  passion  for  poetry,  music  and  flow- 
ers, and  the  hours  glided  swiftly  as  the  merits  of  the 
author  were  discussed  —  or  as  Emma  discoursed  sweet 
music  upon  the  piano  —  or  as  they  strolled  at  twilight 
through  the  flowers,  giving  to  these  unbreatliing  things 
of  nature  a  voice  more  expressive  than  language. 

Months  passed,  and  it  was  eagerly  and  everywhere 
reported  that  Ronaldo  Edgarson  was  paying  his  ad- 
dresses to  the  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter  of 
Judge  S and  there  was  no  doubt  but  his  atten- 
tions were  favorably  received.  Some,  however,  sur- 
mised that  he  was  pursuing  a  system  of  flirtation,  and 
soon  the  poor  girl  would  be  left  with  a  broken  heart. 

Little  did  Ronaldo  care  for  the  reports  ;  he  had  the 
consciousness  of  knowing  that  his  heart  was  true  to 
the  object  of  its  attachment. 

It  was  a  still  summer  night —  Ronaldo  and  Emma 
had  wandered  forth  to  enjoy  the  beautiful  tranquility 
of  the  hour.  Near  her  father's  house,  and  on  the 
brink  of  a  river,  that  swept  through  the  grounds,  stood 
uii  (lid  willow  with  the  lirst  soft  green  of  spring,  but 


THE    DESERTED.  39 

just  beginning  to  deepen  in  the  delicate  and  feathery 
foliage  that  fell  down  its  branches  in  showers  to  tne 
lurf  around. 

Beneath  this  willow,  the  lovers  seated  themselves  in 
happy  silence.  A  pale  starlight  streamed  softly  thro* 
the  branches  to  their  young  faces  and  wove  a  silvery 
network  all  around  them.  The  river  rolled  by,catching, 
here  and  there,  the  reflection  of  a  star  on  its  rippling 
waves ;  and  the  soft  murmui-ing  sound  of  its  water 
filled  the  cool  air  with  melody.  Ronaldo  had  never 
talked  of  love  to  the  fair  being  by  his  side  ;  but  now 
the  scenery,  the  quiet  starlight,  and  the  chiming  wa- 
ter, the  touch  of  that  little  hand,  that  lay  in  his,  so 
white  and  tremulous,  aroused  all  the  deep  romance  of 
his  nature,  and  the  love  which  had  so  long  slept  seem- 
ed forcing  him  to  utterance.  It  was  not  passion  that 
possessed  him  ;  but  a  tender  tumult  of  the  soul,  strug- 
gling  for  expression.  He  bent  his  head  to  hers,  and 
spoke,  not  loudly,  not  with  words  of  burning  enthusi- 
asm, but  in  a  tone  that  thrilled  through  and  through 
the  heart  of  that  young  girl.  She  did  not  answer  him 
in  words ;  what  need  of  that  ?  but  even  in  the  star- 
light, he  could  see  the  color  deepen  on  her  cheek,  and 
tears  came  flashing  up  to  her  radiant  black  eyes.  The 
hand,  in  his,  shook  like  a  frightened  bird  —  was  hur- 
riedly withdrawn,  passed  for  a  single  moment  to  her 
face  —  and  then  sweetly  surrendered  to  his  passionate 
grasp  again.  Their  eyes  met — words,  such  sweet 
words  as  can  only  arouse  the  heart  to  entire  happiness, 
once  in  her  life-time,  fell  from  her  lips  ',  and  in  that 
still  night  the  lovers  were  betrothed. — 


# 


40  THB    LAUREL   WREATH. 

"  Oh  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found; 
Oh  heartfelt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare ; 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare, 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 
In  others'  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  eve- 
ning gale." 
The  parents  of  Emma  had  witnessed  with  pleasure, 
the  growing  and  mutual  affection  of  tbe  young  lovers. 
Preparations  were  made    for   their   marriage.     The 
day  was  fixed,   and   Emma  was  led  to  the  altar,   a 
blooming,  beautiful  bride.     And  who  that  witnessed 
that  scene  of  innocent  festivity,  and  saw  every  coun- 
tenance radiant  with   hope  and  listened  to  the  many 
congratulations  could    have   supposed    that  a   cloud 
would  come  over  the  dish  of  their  joys  ?     On  her  bri- 
dal day,  Emma    received  as  her  dower,  a  deed  of  a 
cottage  residence,    together  with  some   fifty  acres  of 
land  spreading  along  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Con- 
necticut.    Tliis  was  to   be  their  future  home,  and  if 
tlicy  had  not  the  prospect  of  wealth  and  aflluence,  in- 
dustry   and    economy  would,  at  least   afford  tiiem  a 
competence.     Ennna  now  devoted  herself  to  her  house- 
hold duties  and  Ronaldo  to  the  cultivation  of  his  farm. 
Years  passed  and  never  did  the  sun  shine  on  a  happier 
pair.     Love,   like   the   Vestal    flame  had   been  kept 
bright  and  burning  on  the   domestic  altar.     And  the 
pU-dgcs  of  their  attacluncnt  miglit  be  seen  in  the  rap- 
ture  beaming   faces  that  were  springing  up,  like  dive 


THE    DESERTED.  41 

plants  around  their  table.  If  they  had  new  cares  and 
responsibilities,  they  had  new  hopes  and  joys  ;  and  to 
each  other  they  clung  with  increasing  fondness. — 
There  was  but  one  thought  which  ever  troubled  the 
generous  and  noble-minded  Ronaldo.  It  was  tlie 
thought  that  his  children  must  be  raised  in  comparative 
obscurity,  without  the  advantages  of  the  best  educa- 
tion. This  thought  occasionally  settled,  like  a  chilling 
damp,  upon  his  spirits  :  it  haunted,  like  an  evil  spirit, 
his  midnight  hours :  it  hung,  like  a  cloud  of  fearful- 
ness,  around  the  path  of  his  daily  toil :  it  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  kindling  the  smouldering  fires  of  early  am- 
bition.  He  was  led  to  contrast  himself  with  what  he 
might  have  been — an  able  advocate  at  the  bar,  or  an 
eloquent  counsellor  in  the  halls  of  his  country  :  but  he 
had  sacrificed  all  at  the  shrine  of  early  love.  There 
was  but  one  hope,  and  that  was,  that  his  sons  should 
reap  the  laurels  which  had  faded  from  his  hands,  and. 
in  them  he  resolved  to  realize  the  leau  ideal  of  his 
early  days.  An  opportunity  was  presented  for  enga- 
ging in  the  East  India  trade,  with  the  prospect  of  amas- 
sing a  fortune.  His  bosom,  for  a  season,  was  the 
theatre  of  painful  and  conflicting  emotions.  Home,  to 
him,  was  precious — the  presence  and  smiles  of  his 
loving  wife  were  as  sunshine  to  his  soul.  At  length, 
his  purpose  was  fixed,  and  he  stated  his  design  to  Em- 
ma. It  fell  like  a  thunder-bolt  from  the  clouds  upon 
her  crushed  heart.  She  could  endure  the  evils  of  pov- 
erty, the  neglect  of  the  world,  anytliing  rather  than  a 
separation  from  the  one  she  loved  as  she  did  her  own 
life.  This  was  like  drying  up  all  the  sources  of  hap- 
piness— like  taking  the  verdure  from  the  fields,  and 


42  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

leaving  them  in  barrenness.  It  was  really  an  afflic- 
tion to  which  slie  felt  she  could  never  school  lier  hean 
to  its  endurance.  She  reasoned  and  remonstrated — 
but  not  all  the  expressions  of  conjugal  tenderness,  nor 
all  the  eloquence  of  devoted  love,  could  change  his 
purpose.  The  day  of  his  departure  drew  near ;  and 
with  as  much  apparent  cheerfulness  as  she  could  com- 
mand, she  made  ready  his  articles  of  clothing,  care- 
fully concealing,  here  and  there,  some  precious  token 
— volumes  of  her  favorite  poets,  lines  in  which  she 
had  marked,  as  expressive  of  her  own  deep  feelings, 
and  which  would  speak  to  him  in  that  far-off  land. 
When  the  sad  morning  came,  and  he  beheld  the  un- 
affected grief,  the  fast-falling  tears  of  his  devoted  wife, 
and  his  little  ones  still  clinging  to  him,  and  in  artless 
sincerity,  crying,  "Papa,  don't  leave  us,''  his  purpose 
for  a  moment  wavered ;  but  he  rallied  himself,  and 
.gave  a  choked  and  forced  utterance  to  the  final  fare- 
well. 

He  sailed  from  Boston  on  as  fine  a  morning  as  ever 
shone  from  heaven ;  the  sky  and  the  earth  were  as 
tranquil  as  if  no  storm  from  the  one  liad  ever  disturb- 
ed the  repose  of  the  other.  And  even  the  oceati,  that 
great  highway  of  the  world,  lay  as  gentle  as  if  its  bo- 
som Iiad  never  betrayed — as  if  no  traveler  had  ever 
sunk  to  death  in  its  embrace.  Prosperous  breezes 
were  now  wafting  him  to  his  destined  port.  Provi- 
dence gave  him  a  safe  arrival.  lie  soon  entered  into 
business.  Every  energy  of  his  soul  was  absorbed  in 
ihe  object  of  his  wishes  and  hopes.  Every  effort  was 
attended  with  success.  He  seemed  to  possess  the 
magic  power  of  converting  every  thing  into  gohl 


THE    DESERTED.  -  43 

Hope  gladdened  his  heart,  and  the  objects  which  here- 
tofore had  floated  like  mists  before  his  ardent  imagin- 
ation, now  began   to  assume  a  definite   and  tangible 
shape.     Every  successive  month  afforded  some  new 
promise  that  his  highest  anticipations  would  be  real- 
ized.    Amid  all  his  exciting  cares  and  absorbing  bu- 
siness, that  far-off  family  group  were  not  forgotten — 
their  remembrance   came   floating  over  him  like  fra- 
grance from  the  land  of  spices.     They,    too,    were 
cheered  in  their  loneliness  by  the  frequent  tokens  of 
his  love  and  the   pledges  of  his  return.     Every  letter 
was  like  the  olive-leaf  borne   by  the  tremulous  dove 
over  the  wide  waste  of  waters,  giving  assurance  of  a 
verdant  spot  in  his  heart,  where  affection,  pure  and 
true,  might  find  a  resting-place  for  the  sole  of  its  foot. 
They  began  to  live  in  the  bright  and  glowing  antici- 
pations of  the  future — to  dream  of  happier  days,  when 
wealth  would  scatter  its  blessings  along  their  path, 
when  home  would  again  be  gladdened  by  the  counsels 
and  presence  of  the  husband  and  father.     Little  did 
the  confiding  Emma  think  that  the  heart  of  her  com- 
panion, ever  so  trustful  and  true,  could  be  given  to 
another.     Little  did  she  dream  of  the  storm-clouds  that 
were  gathering  in  the  eastern  sky  !     But  in  that  far- 
off  land,  his  feet  were  snared  ;  a  trap  was  laid  for  him 
by  an  artful  and  designing  woman.     She  had  travel- 
ed much — mingled  in  society — could  lay  some  claims 
to  beauty — and  knew  how  to  touch,  with  admirable 
adroitness,  the  various  cords  of  the  human  heart.  Ed- 
garson,  to  while  away  a  leisure  hour,  sought  her  soci- 
ety :    he  was  beguiled,    cheated,   finally  entranced. 
His  ears  were  fascinated  by  the  song  of  the  syren  : 


44  THE    LAUKEL    WREATH. 

his  heart  became  intoxicated  by  the  melodies  iv  rhicb 
oleasure  breathes  her  incantations,  and  he  founJ  him- 
self fairly  drawn  witliin  lier  enchanted  circle.  At 
times,  indeed,  thoughts  of  home  came  sweeping  over 
nim,  and  he  would  struggle  for  release  ;  but  he  seem- 
ed held,  as  if  by  some  magic  spell.  ■  Conscience,  evei 
and  anon,  would  startle  him  from  the  slumber  of  in- 
toxication, and  compel  him  to  write.  But  his  letters 
Dreathed  an  air  of  coldness,  and  betrayed  the  sad 
change  which  had  come  Over  him.  They  came  less 
and  less  frequent,  until,  at  length,  an  otninous  silence 
reigned ! 

But  he  who  was  now  giving  his  caresses  to  another, 
was  not  forgotten  :  his  name  was  remembered  in  eve- 
ry morning  and  evening  prayer — his  apparent  cold- 
ness and  neglect  were  readily  attributed  to  other  cau- 
ses than  want  of  affection.  She  who  loved  with  all  the 
deep  pathos  of  woman's  heart,  could  readily  imagine 
that  his  business  perplexed  him,  cr  that  his  letters 
were  detained  or  miscarried.  She  would  not — she 
could  not,  for  a  moment,  indulge  the  thought  that  she 
was  forsaken  !  She  thought,  perhaps  Ronaldo  was  on 
nis  way,  and  aimed  to  take  them  all  by  surprise — 
that  he  would  burst  upon  them  on  a  sudden,  like  the 
sun  from  behind  a  dark  and  threatening  cloud,  to 
cheer  them  with  his  radiant  smiles. 

"Oh,  woman's  love  !  at  times  it  may 
Seem  cold  or  clouded,  but  it  burns 
With  true,  undeviating  ray, 
Nor  never  fix)m  its  idol  turns. 
Like  ivy,  where  it  grows,  'tis  seen 


THE    DESERTED.  45 

To  wear  an  everlasting  green  : 
Like  ivy,  too,  'tis  found  to  cling 
Too  often  round  a  worthless  thing." 

At  length,  rumor  came,  with  all  the  certainty  of 
truth,  that  she  was  deserted !  The  shock  was  over- 
whelming. She  threw  herself  in  speechless  agony 
upon  the  sofa — her  face  was  white  as  snow — her  hands 
were  convulsively  clenched — her  large  black  eyes 
gazed  with  a  wild  and  vacant  stare — a  deep-drawn 
sigh  was  heard,  and  all  was  still !  Her  mother  and 
sister,  like  the  angel  visitants  who  supported  the  Man 
of  Sorrows  during  the  season  of  his  mysterious  ago- 
ny, were  by  her  side.  They  endeavored  to  restore 
her ;  but  all  efforts  seemed  useless,  and,  for  a  time, 
hope  and  fear  darkly  struggled  together.  Her  quiv- 
ering pulse — her  short  and  irregular  breathing,  gave 
evidence  indeed  of  life ;  but  the  fluttering  spirit  was 
struggling  for  release — death  seemed  inevitable. — 
But  her  time  had  not  yet  come :  consciousness  was 
partially  restored,  and,  as  if  bewildered  with  gridf,  she 
cried  wildly,  "  Where  is  he  ?  Is  my  dear  Ronaldo 
coming  ?"  Her  mother  strove  to  calm  her  frenzied 
feelinors.  Her  sister,  sittinop  at  her  feet,  held  her 
hand,  and  soft  as  the  gentle  whispers  of  an  angel  did 
the  consolations  of  religion  fall  upon  the  ear  of  the  de- 
serted and  disconsolate  wife  ;  for  a  moment,  a  gleam 
of  heavenly  radiance  lighted  up  her  pale  features. 
Then  her  paroxysms  would  return,'  and  her  grief  was 
inconsolable.  A  violent  fever  succeeded,  and,  for 
weeks,  her  case  was  doubtful :  her  mind  wandered — 
at  times  she  would  fancy  herself  with  her  own  Ronal. 


4G  THE    LAUREL    WKEATU. 

do,  and  she  was  in  an  ecstacy  of  joy — then  again  it 
would  seem  as  though  her  heart  would  burst  with 
grief.  It  was  painful  to  behold  a  noble  woman,  with 
a  noble  mind  and  heart,  thus  dying  with  an  agony  be- 
yond even  the  ministrations  of  Gospel  truth  ! 

"If  angels  weep,  it  is  at  such  a  sight." 

Her  fever  left  her,  and  she  began  gradually  to  re- 
cover— her  only  desire  to  live  was  for  her  children, 
that  she  might  train  them  up  virtuously  for  usefulness, 
and  for  heaven.  He  who  had  tims  wrongfully  aban- 
doned the  object  of  his  early  love,  was  not  forgotten  ; 
and  as  soon  as  Emma  was  sufficiently  restored,  she 
wrote  the  following  letter: 

My  Dear  Husband  : 

I  write  not  to  upbraid  you.  I  entertain 
still  a  sincere  affection  for  you,  and  no  unkind  treat- 
ment will  ever  be  able  to  remove  it.  I  ^\  rite  only  to 
inform  you  of  the  state  of  those  whom  you  have  unfor- 
tunately abandoned,  your  children  and  your  07ice-\ov. 
ed  Emma.  Fame  has  informed  me,  with  too  much 
authenticity,  tiiat  you  have  found  another  object  of 
your  love,  and  that  I  shall  see  your  face  no  more.  I, 
wlio  had  expected  your  return  from  the  East  Indies 
with  painful  anxiety,  who  had  counted  the  slow  hours 
which  parted  you  from  me — think  how  I  was  grieved, 
shocked,  when  1  heard  of  your  infidelity,  and  that  you 
never  intended  to  relurn  to  your  family  again.  No 
one  can  tell  the  agony  I  have  .suH'cred  on  your  ac- 
count :  li;ul  I  heard  of  your  death,  1  might  have  been 
consolrd  ;   but  to  be  deserted  h\  one  whom  I  love  as  I 


THE    DESERTED.  47 

do  my  life,  is  an  affliction  which  I  had  never  anticipa- 
ted, and  which  I  was  illy  adapted  to  meet. 

You  went,  as  you  remember,  against  my  earnest 
entreaties ;  but  it  was  with  a  desire,  which  I  thought 
sincere,  to  provide  a  genteel  maintenance  for  our  four 
little  ones,  whom  you  said  you  could  not  bear  to  see 
brought  up  to  the  evils  of  poverty.  I  might  now  la- 
ment the  disappointment  in  not  sharing  the  expected 
riches,  which  I  hear  you  have  amassed.  But  I  scorn 
it.  What  are  riches,  compared  to  the  delights  of  sin- 
cere afTection  ?  I  deplore  the  frailty  which  has  invol- 
ved you  in  error,  and  will,  as  such  a  sinful  course 
must,  terminate  in  misery. 

But  1  mean  not  to  remonstrate.  It  is,  alas !  too  late. 
I  write  to  acquaint  you  with  the  health  and  some  oth- 
er circumstances  of  myself  and  those  little  ones  whom 
you  once  loved. 

We  still  retain  the  place  presented  by  my  father  on 
the  day  of  our  marriage.  We  can  make  no  preten- 
sions to  elegance ;  but  we  live  in  great  neatness,  and, 
by  strict  economy,  supply  our  moderate  wants  with  as 
much  comfort  as  our  desolate  situation  will  allow. 
Your  presence,  my  love,  would  make  the  little  cottage 
a  palace. 

Poor  Emily,  who  has  grown  a  fine  girl,  has  been 
working  a  pair  of  ruffles  for  you,  and  often,  as  she 
plies  her  needle,  repeats,  with  a  sigh,  "When  will  my 
dear  papa  return  ?"  The  others  are  constantly  ask- 
ing the  same  question  ;  and  little  Henry,  as  soon  as 
he  began  to  talk,  learned  to  lisp,  in  the  first  syllables 
he  ever  uttered,  "When  will  papa  come  home  ?" — 
Sweet  fellow  !     He  is  now  sitting  on  his  stool  by  my 


48  THE    LAUKEL    WREATH. 

side,  and  as  he  sees  me  drop  a  tear,  says,  "Don't  cry, 
ma,  for  papa  will  come  home  soon."  He  and  his  two 
brothers  are  frequently  riding  on  your  walking-stick, 
and  take  great  delight  in  it,  because  it  is  papa's.  I  do 
assure  you  I  never  open  my  lips  to  them  as  to  the 
cause  of  your  absence.  But  I  cannot  prevail  with  my- 
self to  bid  them  cease  to  ask  when  you  will  return, 
though  the  question  often  e:ftorts  a  tear,  which  I  strive 
to  hide  in  a  smile,  and  wrings  my  soul,  while  I  suffer 
in  silence. 

I  have  taught  them  to  mention  you  with  the  greatest 
ardor  of  affection,  in  their  morning  and  evening  pray- 
ers ;  and  they  always  add,  of  themselves,  a  petition 
for  your  safe  and  speedy  return. 

I  spend  my  time  in  giving  them  the  little  instruc- 
tion I  am  able.  I  cannot  afford  to  place  them  in  any 
eminent  school,  and  1  do  not  choose  that  they  should 
acquire  the  roughness  and  vulgarity  which  they  will 
be  liable  to  contract  at  a  low  one.  I  therefore  prefer 
to  teach  them  at  home.  Emily  and  the  two  older  boys 
are  now  studying  French,  and  they  are  making  rapid 
progress.  As  to  English,  they  read  alternately  thrco 
hours  every  morning  the  most  celebrated  poets,  and 
prose  writers ;  and  they  write,  though  not  an  elegant, 
yet  a  very  plain  and  legible  hand. 

Do  not,  my  dear,  imagine  that  the  employment  is 
irksome.  It  ailbrds  mo  a  sweet  consolation  in  your 
absence.  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  for  the  little  ones,  I 
should  sink  under  the  weight  of  my  trials.  Master 
James,  every  one  says,  is  the  very  image  of  his  falii- 
er,  and  is  as  anbctionatc  a  little  fellow  as  ever  hung  or 
1f)»^  lap  of  a  fund  mother. 


THE    DESERTED.  49 

Pardon  my  interrupting  you.  I  desire  to  give  you 
pleasure,  not  pain.  Though  I  am  deeply  injured  by 
your  error,  I  am  not  resentful. 

I  wish  you  all  the  happiness  of  which  you  are  ca- 
pable, and  am 

Your  once  loved  and  still  loving 

Emma. 

This  letter  was  received — the  writing  and  seal  were 
at  once  recognized  as  Emma's ;  but,  unopened,  it 
was  contemptuously  cast  aside,  while  he  turned  away 
to  indulge  in  the  gay  banquet  of  flesh  and  sense. 

Profligacy  and  excess  marked  his  course — perfectly 
melancholy  was  he,  could  he  not  revel  with  his  cups 

and  wine — his  mirth  and  gay  fascinations.     But  vice 

has  a  stopping  as  well  as  a  starting  point. 

Mistaken  love  had  driven  him  into  the  idolatry  and 
crime  of  passion — ^jealousy  filled  his  mind  with  a  dead- 
ly poison,  which  gnawed,  like  molten  lead,  its  way  in- 
to the  very  quick  of  his  soul.  The  object  of  his  crime 
and  passion  hurried  him  to  desperation  ;  and  he  went 
armed  to  meet  his  antagonist  in  deadly  conflict — the 
word  was  given — deliberate  aim  was  taken  ;  Ronaldo 
was  the  victim,  and  he  was  borne  insensibly  to  his 
lodo-inffs. 

Now  that  the  judgments  of  Heaven  had  overtaken 
him,  and  it  was  declared  that  his  wound  was  fatal,  he 
began  to  come  to  himself — to  think  of  the  absent  and 
injured  ones — his  own  guilt  and  ruin.  He  remembered 
the  last  letter,  the  seal  of  which  had  never  been  brok- 
en ;  he  orders  it  to  be  brought — he  opens  and  reads — 

his  tears  fall  like  rain-drops,  as  he  sees  the  name  of 
D  C 


50  THE    LAUKEL  ^ffflklU. 

his  own  true  and  still  devoted  hmma.  As  he  reads 
of  his  loved  ones,  still  lisping  and.  loving  the  name 
*'Papa,"  his  heart  is  penetrated  through  and  tlirough 
with  minded  emotions  of  grief  and  shame.  Weak  as 
he  was,  he  dictated  the  following  answer  to  the  epistle 
which  he  held  in  his  trembling  hand : 

Excellent  and  devoted  Emma : 

By  the  time  you  receive  this,  the  heart 
which  dictated  it  will  be  cold  and  still.  I  have  order- 
ed  it  not  to  be  transmitted  to  you  till  I  am  departed ; 
and  I  am  now  on  my  death-bed.  My  surgeon  has 
told  me  that  I  cannot  recover. 

Ambition  led  me  to  separate  from  you  ;  a  separa- 
tion of  a  year  or  two  caused  me  to  forget  you,  and  to 
form  a  connection  from  which  I  have  derived  nothing 
but  misery.  I  deserved  it  for  my  folly  and  wicked- 
ness. You  were  the  best  of  wives,  and  I  have  wrong- 
ed you  beyond  the  power  of  reparation.  I  will  not 
give  you  pain  by  a  particular  enumeration  of  my  va- 
rious trials.  I  have  been  infatuated  by  one  who  loved 
me  not,  but  loved  the  treasure  I  so  rapidly  amassed  in 
the  East,  and  left  no  effort  untried  to  captivate  my 
affections.  Our  acquaintance  gradually  increased  to 
an  intimacy,  which  has  laid  the  foundation  of  all  my 
distress.  But  after  having  spent,  in  dissipation  and 
in  extravagant  dress,  a  large  portion  of  my  fortune, 
she  k-fi:  me,  not  without  involving  me  in  a  fatal  duel, 
and  accompanied  the  man  wlio  gave  me  my  death- 
wound.  The  following  note  from  her,  I  enclose,  tliat 
that  you  may  see  how  different  a  woman  she  was  from 
yourself: 


THE    DESERTED.  51 

'  Despicable  Wretch : 

'  Do  you  think  I  will  live  in  beggary  with 
you  ?     Refuse  to  buy  me  the  diamond  necklace  ! — • 

Captain is  a  generous  man.     He  has  long  ex- 

pressed  a  regard  for  me.  He  has  purchased  the  neck- 
lace which  you,  mean  fellow,  refused.  Make  no  more 
pretensions  to  me  ;  and  if  you  dare  be  angry  with  the 
Captain  for  any  liberties  he  may  take,  be  assured  you 
will  meet  with  your  match.  And  I  hope  to  hear  that 
he  makes  you  repent  your  insolence  in  aspiring  to  the 
affections  of  one  who  is  deserving  of  a  man  of  spirit. 

'  Yours  no  more. 


Such  is  the  spirit  of  the  woman  who  led  me  astray. 
Deeply  do  I  regret  my  error.  I  am  unworthy  of  you 
— unworthy  the  kind  and  noble  letter  you  were  pleas- 
ed to  write  me.  It  has  indeed  afforded  me  satisfaction, 
as  you  generously  intended.  I  rejoice  that  my  poor 
children  have  such  a  mother  to  compensate  the  inju- 
ries of  a  deluded  father.  Would  that  I  could  blot  the 
two  past  years  of  my  life  from  existence,  and  be  as  I 
was  before  I  saw  the  woman  who  deceived  me ;  but  a 
stain  is  on  my  history  which  all  the  floods  of  penitence 
can  never  wash  out.  I  must  die  dishonored — indeed, 
I  can  scarely  wish  to  live  ;  for  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
see  my  injured  Emma,  and  the  presence  of  the  little 
ones  would  break  my  heart.  I  have  had  time  to  make 
a  Will,  and  the  remnant  of  my  large  estate  will,  I 
trust,  place  you  in  circumstances  of  ease,  and  enable 
you  to  educate  the  children  in  some  measui'e  as  I  had 
anticipated. 


52  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  wife :  forgive  me,  my  dear 
children — and  remember  that  the  father  who  cruelly 
deserted  you,  lived  a  wretch  in  consequence  of  his 
unkindness,  and  died  prematurely.  It  was  the  last 
satisfaction  he  had,  that  he  lived  to  see  his  error,  and 
ask  God's  and  his  family's  forgiveness.  I  trust  I  have 
sincerely  repented,  and  I  die  in  hope,  through  the 
merits  of  the  Lamb  slain.  I  leave  the  children  with 
you,  my  dear,  and  a  covenant  God.  May  we  meet  in 
heaven.     Farewell ! 

Your  unfortunate 

RONALDO. 

The  mingled  emotions  of  grief  and  joy  occasioned 
by  this  letter,  can  better  be  conceived  than  described. 
Emma  grieved  deeply  over  his  frailty  and  error — his 
absence  and  premature  death  ;  but  that  he  died  peni- 
tent, and  as  she  hope  jmrdoned,  was  a  matter  of  com- 
fort to  her.  She  now  devoted  herself  to  her  children, 
and  found  in  them  and  in  the  promises  of  religion,  pre- 
cious consolation.  The  addition  to  her  estate  relieved 
her  from  all  fear  of  want,  and  gave  lier  the  means  to 
educate  her  children  as  she  had  wished.  Nothing, 
Jiowever,  could  compensate  the  loss  of  her  Ronaldo  ; 
and  often  was  she  heard  to  speak  against  the  ambition 
or  the  avarice  which  drives  husbands  from  their  homes 
into  foreign  climes,  for  purposes  of  gain  or  glory. 

New-Ycrk,  1845. 


THE  maiden's  FAREWELI-  TO  HER  LOVER.  53 


THE  MAIDEN'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  LOVER. 


BY  MK»  ANN  S.  BTEPHEN& 


Shall  I  think  of  thee  !  words  are  but  musical  ties, 

The  honey-bee  murmurs  his  love  as  he  flies, 

And  promises  lightly  or  uselessly  spoken 

Are  always  the  first  to  be  ruthlessly  broken. 

Would  ye  take,  then,  a  promise,  when  words  cannot 

bind 
The  faith  of  a  heart  or  the  thoughts  of  a  mind  ? 

Shall  I  tliink  of  thee  ?  ay,  as  the  bird  that  has  been 
Driven  forth  from  her  nest  when  the  branches  are 

green — 
As  the  deer  hunted  down  on  the  shelterless  plain 
May  pant  for  his  home  in  the  thicket  again. 
The  blossom,  all  parched  by  the  sun's  vivid  light, 
Waits,  faint  and  athirst,  for  the  sweet  dews  of  night. 
And  the  soul  thou  hast  thrill'd  with  the  music  of  love 
Turns  to  thee,  as  the  flower  drinks  its  life  from  above. 

When  the  heavens  are  rich  with  the  blushes  of  June, 
Or  pearly  with  light  from  the  timid  young  moon. 
Which  now,  like  a  pinnace,  is  launched  in  the  sky, 
And  plowing  the  billows  heaped  lightly  on  high — 
When  the  earth  is  all  silent,  and  Nature  asleep. 


54  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

I  shall  think  of  this  moment ;  and,  thinking,  shall 

weep : 
Weep — sadly  and  fondly — almost  broken-hearted, 

Weep — not  that  I  loved  thee — but  that  we  are  parted. 

Thou  wilt  think  of  me,  too  !  for  my  spirit  will  come, 
Like  a  musical  thought,  to  thy  far  distant  home. 
It  will  hover  around  thee,  with  smiles  from  the  past, 
And  whisper  of  times  all  too  precious  to  last. 
It  will  haunt  thee  with  blessings,  and  share  thy  re- 
pose, 
And  will  be  to  thy  heart  as  tlie  dew  to  its  rose. 
It  shall  blend  with  thy  slumbers,  and  tinge  all  thy 

dreams. 
As  the  sunset  on  waters  all  mellowy  gleams. 
When  time  and  stern  distance  has  torn  us  apart — 
When  another  shall  pillow  her  head  on  thy  heart, 
And  lulled  by  its  pulses  sinks  sweetly  to  rest. 
Thou  V  ilt  think  of  me — lowly,  alone  and  oppressed. 
Till  thy  soul  shall  grow  restless  and  pant  to  be  free, 
And  each  string,  as  it  thrills,  shall  beat  faitliful  to  me. 


But  should  time  work  a  change  on  the  feelings  that 

now 
Fill  thy  bosom,  like  buds  on  a  blossoming  bough — 
Why,  let  Time  do  his  worst !     The  heart  may  live  on 
In  the  wreck  of  its  flowers,  though  the  fragrance  be 

gone  ! 
My  spirit  has  rendered  its  treasures  to  thine. 
As  the  devotee  casts  all  his  wealth  on  a  shrine. 
Go,  and  trample  its  gems  to  the  earth  if  you  will : 


THE  MAIDEN  S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  LOVER.     55 

A  gleam  from  their  fragments  will  flash  o'er  thee  still. 
O'erwhelm  thee  with  darkness,  with  clouus  and  des- 

pail, 
In  rust  and  in  ruin,  they  yet  will  be  there. 


56  THE   LAUKEL   WREATH. 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH 

BT  C.  DONALD  MACLEOD 
I. 

Those  olden  Alchymists — with  their  golden  dreams 
— with  their  tireless  search  for  knowledge,  and  their 
ceaseless  application  of  that  already  obtained,  have 
passed  away.  We  read  of  them  in  books  upon  "pop- 
ular delusions ;"  and  now-a-days,  the  creature  with 
barely  mind  enough  to  read  a  novel,  claims,  as  his  own, 
the  advance  of  knowledge ;  and  at  ease  over  his  pret- 
tily bound  and  well-explained  volume  of  philosophy, 
curls  his  vain  lip  at  the  noble  minds  and  mighty  intel- 
lects that  erred  in  their  love  and  study  of  the  Great 
Mother ! 

O,  give  us  back  those  old  dreamers !  the  Astrolo- 
gers, who  first  taught  Poetry  and  Science  to  walk 
liand  in  hand  :  the  Alchymist,  whose  dream  was  but 
an  emblem  for  Love,  Hope,  and  Faith,  a  dream  that 
breathed  upon  the  leaden  masses  of  the  earth  and  turn- 
ed  them  into  gold  !  We  could  do  well  without  some 
of  our  science ;  but  we  can  ill  spare  the  heart  that 
made  way  for  its  advance  ! 

II. 

Moonlight  in  lieaven,  and  the  delicate  white  cloud- 
lets hung  like  bridal  veils  over  the  ])ure  face  of  tho 


THE  ALCIiYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  51 

sky ;  and  the  enduring  stars  smiled,  solemn,  serene, 
and  still. 

Moonlight  on  earth,  and  the  flowers  looked  upward 
and  dreamed  that  the  stars  were  their  sisters ;  the 
green  leaves  glistened  and  the  brooks  flowed  brightly. 

Moonlight  over  Corinth ;  and  the  white  marble  of 
her  shrines  and  palaces  gleamed  in  the  ray  ;  the  low 
shed  of  the  artisan  grew  lovelier,  and  the  gay  city 
slept  in  the  lustre. 

Moonlight  upon  the  bay,  and  the  sails  of  the  gal- 
leys glanced ;  the  leap  of  the  dolphin  filled  the  air 
with  diamonds;  the  white-winged  gull  flew  freely  as 
in  the  mid-day ;  and  burnished  with  silver  was  the  lip 
of  the  wavelet  as  it  rolled  to  kiss  the  beautiful  shore. 

Moonlight  over  all  thina;s,  and  the  calmness  of  moon- 
light  in  the  heart  of  old  Eusebius,  whom  men  called 
the  Alchymist  ! 

There  he  sat  in  his  dimly  lighted  study-room,  with 
the  alembic,  the  retort  and  the  crucible  around  him  ; 
poring  over  a  well  read  parchment  manuscript. 

And  as  he  read,  he  looked  upward  and  smiled,  and 
spoke  aloud. 

"  When  shall  I  reach  that  Eden  ?  Ah,  it  is  a  hap- 
py  land,  and  the  gold  of  that  land  is  good ;  there  is 
bdellium  and  the  onyx  stone." 

"  Ah,  learned  Eusebius,  your  thoughts  are  ever  on 
your  science ;  but  have  you  not  yet  discovered  the 
secret  ?"  and  the  vice-governor  of  Corinth  advanced 
into  the  room. 

"Noble    Eubulus,"   said   the    Alchymist,   "I    had" 

scarcely  expected  you  so  early.     But   for  reply  to 

your  question,  I  have  found  the  secret  ;  I  have  that 
C  2 


58  THE    LAUREL    WlttAin. 

which  makes  all  things  golden.  It  is  here ;"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  reverently  upon  the  manuscript.  The 
noble  stooped  to  examine  it. 

"  What  strange  character  is  that  in  which  it  is  writ 
ten  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Wliat  you  now  look  upon,"  said  the  Alchymist, 
"is  Hebrew — the  language  of  a  race  called  Israelites ; 
but  much  of  that  volume  is  in  our  own  Greek." 

"Ah,  is  it  so?  But  I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  pupil: 
the  effect  of  your  science  will  content  me.  Have  you 
yet  made  any  gold  ?" 

'  Not  yet.  But  the  time  is  near  at  hand,  when  I 
will  look  upon  the  treasures  of  the  whole  earth  as  mat- 
ters of  little  value.  I  am  rapidly  drawing  near  that 
bourne  of  my  hopes,  beyond  which  all  is  glory." 

"  True,  you  labor  for  the  reputation ;  but  we  of 
meaner  desires  ask  for  the  gold.  How  is  it  you  are 
to  succeed,  and  where  is  this  happy  land — this  Eden, 
as  I  tliink  you  call  it  ?" 

"That,"  said  Eusebius,  "that  is  the  secret.'" 

III. 

"  Good  iElion,  would  not  your  studies  advance  more 
rajjidly,  if  you  were  in  the  viuseion*  with  my  father  ? 
You  will  scarce  bean  Alchymistifyou  spend  so  mucli 
of  your  time  with  me." 

"Yet  would  I  rather  study  with  you,  sweet  Clia." 

"  I  am  not  an  adopt,  sir  student,  and  cannot  teach 
the  science  of  transmutation." 

•Study,  labrutory. 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  59 

"Yet  I  have  discovered  a  dearer  alchimy  than  your 
father  can  impart." 

"Ah,  is  it  so?  And  what,  pray,  can  it  do  for 
you  ?" 

"  It  can  touch  all  that  this  world  has  of  dark,  lead- 
en, and  unlovely,  and  change  it  into  something  bright 
as  the  dreams  of  Sappho.  It  resembles  that  Achaian 
King  of  olden  time,  whose  hand  turned  all  it  touched 
to  gold.     So  does  my  discovery." 

"  Doubtless  Sappho's  dreams  were  brilliant ;  and 
doubtless  the  monarch  was  a  great  Alchymist.  But 
by  what  name  do  you  call  this  new  science  ?" 

"  It  is  an  alchimy." 

"  And  its  name  ?" 

"Is  love!" 

"Ah,  what  a  droll  name  for  a  science.  Are  you  an 
adept  ?" 

"  Scarcely  yet,  sweet  Clia ;  but  I  fancy  my  know- 
ledge already  great  enough  to  qualify  me  for  ateacher. 
I  would  fain  have  thee  for  a  pupil,  pneuma  mia." 

"  Nay,  we  simple  girls  have  not  the  minds  for  those 
graver  studies  of  you  lords  of  earth.  I  care  not  for 
your  science." 

"  But  I  would  fain  entreat  thee " 

"  I  will  not  learn,"  said  the  maiden,  imperiously. 
So  the  young  Greek  made  his  reverence  and  departed 
for  the  museion. 

Which  was  the  better  alchimy,  iElion's,  or  that  of 
Eusebius  ? 


-*a 


50  THE   LAUREL   WREATH. 

IV. 

In  the  labratory  with  his  master,  iElion  prepared  for 
the  study  of  his  science.  A  man  of  strong  intellect 
and  most  earnest  nature,  he  had  given  up  his  whole 
heart  to  the  fascinating  employment.  The  high  tone 
of  poetic  mystery  adopted  by  the  adepts,  was  full  of 
charms  for  an  enthusiastic  mind  such  as  his  ;  and  he 
lent  himself  to  its  witchery  the  more  unconditionally, 
perhaps,  because  he  could  not  altogether  comprehend 
it.  The  matter-of-fact  men  may  say  what  they  will ; 
but  the  endeavor  to  obtain  knowledge  has  far  more 
pleasure  in  it,  than  can  be  felt  after  it  is  obtained. 
The  desire  for  the  star  is  dearer  than  its  possession 
could  be ! 

"  When,  good  master,  wilt  thou  impart  thy  secret  to 
me  ?"  asked  the  young  man  of  the  adept. 

"  When  thou  hast  learned  two  lessons.  To  deny 
thyself,  and  to  deny  the  world,"  replied  Eusebius. 

"  The  first,"  said  iElion,  "  I  have  long  striven  for 
and  practised  :  the  latter  I  scarcely  comprehend." 

"Thou  canst  refuse,"  said  the  old  man,  "  thine  own 
unruled  desires.  But  when  the  world  demands  aught 
of  thee,  canst  thou  be  resolute  in  a  refusal  to  yield  it  ? 
Thy  search  now  is  for  a  beautiful  truth.  Were  earth 
to  proffer  gold,  or  titles,  or  honor  to  thee,  as  induce- 
ments  to  resign  thy  studies,  couldst  thou  deny  the 
earth  ?" 

"  I  think  that  I  have  such  a  power,"  replied  the 
youth,  modestly. 

"  But  were  earth  to  heap  upon  tlice  opprobrium, 
Bcorn,  hatred  and  persecutions " 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  61 

"I  could  Still  be  firm,"  said  ^lion,  promptly. 

"  But  were  earth  to  doom  thee  to  fetters,  dungeons,, 
the  torture  and  the  death " 

"  Good  Eusebius,  these  but  hurt  the  body ;  and  I 
have  long  since  gathered  from  thy  teachings,  that 
man's  true  being  is  the  essence  imprisoned  in  this 
house  of  clay.  For  it,  I  can  look  with  calm  despising 
upon  physical  allurements,  and  on  physical  pain." 

"  It  is  well.  Read  this."  And  the  old  man  placed 
the  book  which  he  had  himself  been  reading,  before 
his  pupil,  and  left  the  labratory.  And  ^lion  bent 
over  the  volume,  with  studious  resolution.  As  he  read, 
an  expression  of  great  interest  spread  over  his  features; 
and  he  became  wholly  wrapped  in  the  perusal  of  the 
pages  before  him.  The  lapse  of  an  hour  found  him  in 
the  same  position.  His  task  was  nearly  finished,  but 
as  he  drew  to  its  close,  more  than  one  large  tear  fell 
upon  the  leaves.  When  he  had  finished,  he  looked 
up,  and  saw  his  master  standing  at  his  side. 

"  Eusebius,"  he  said,  "  this  was  a  God  !" 

"  There  is  but  one  God,  iElion." 

The  young  man  gazed  wonderingly  at  the  Alchy- 
mist,  and.  replied, 

"  Perhaps  so :  you  know  best.  Know  you  any- 
thing more  of  this  man  ?  With  such  a  leader,  I  could 
follow  through  any  horrors  and  perils,  methinks." 

"  Wouldst  thou,  then,  willingly  become  a  disciple 
of  his?" 

"Most  willingly,  good  Eusebius." 

"Listen,  then,  and  I  will  tell  thee  more  of  him." — 
And  sitting  beside  his  pupil,  the  Alchymist  revealed 
his  secret.     And  there  did  the  young  man  plight,  upon 


^t 


62  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

his  knees,  his  faith  to  live,  to  labor,  to  endure,  and,  if 
need  be,  to  die,  for  the  sake  of  the  knowledge  then 
given  him. 

There  was  more  in  that  alchimy  of  Eusebius,  than 
men  dreamed  of. 


V. 

Eubulus,  the  vice-governor  of  Corinth,  sat  beside 
the  daughter  of  Eusebius,  in  her  own  house. 

"But,  girl,  if  I  have  read  your  sex  aright,  you  are 
all  fond  of  gold  and  honors." 

"  Granted,  noble  sir,  so  they  be  honestly  come  by," 
said  Clia. 

"  Honestly !  Is  it  not  enough  for  thee,  that  thou  art 
loved  by  the  vice-governor  of  Corinth  ?" 

"  Nay,  even  that  is  not  enough,"  she  answered,  with 
a  scorn  that  stung  him  to  the  quick. 

"  Thou  shalt  learn,  then !"  he  shouted,  angrily  ; — 
"yet,  stay.  Clia,  I  love  thee  well ;  better  than  I  had 
thought ;  better  than  if  thou  hadst  yielded  lightly  to 
my  wish.  I  offer  thee  my  name  and  honors,  and  the 
share  of  my  rank.     Wilt  thou  be  my  wife,  Clia  ?" 

"Nay,  noble  Eubulus,  seek  among  those  of  thine 
own  rank  ;  I  am  too  humble." 

"But  to  me  thou  art  the  noblest  in  Corinth." 

"I  cannot  love  thee,  Eubulus,  and  wanting  that,  I 
may  not  wed  thee." 

"But  thou  wilt  learn  to  love  me." 

"Thou  art  greatly  in  error,  sir  vice-governor  ;  and 
dost  not  read  a  woman's  heart  rightly.  It  can  never 
be." 


THE    ALCHYMIST    OF    CORINTH.  63 

"  Clia,  I  have  wooed  thee  as  fondly  as  ever  man 
wooed  woman,  and  as  humbly  as  though  thou  wert 
the  princess  and  I  the  plebeian :  and  thou  hast  been 
scornful  through  all.  I  will  now  woo  thee  as  The- 
seus  wooed  Helen."  And  springing  forward  sud- 
denly he  caught  her  in,  his  arms ;  but  instantly  loos- 
ed his  clasp,  and  fell  back  with  a  cry  of  nain.  As 
he  did  so,  the  blood  trickled  from  his  shoulder. 

And  the  Greek  girl  stood  erect  there  with  flashing 
eyes,  and  pale  face,  and  in  her  hand  was  a  small  dag- 
ger, and  from  its  point  the  red  blood  dripped  upon  the 
floor. 

"  We  have  not  forgotten  the  memory  of  Euphra- 
sia," said  she.     "  Begone  !  " 

But  as  he  left  the  apartment,  he  turned  upon  her 
with  a  savage  scowl  and  said  in  a  hoarse  voice, 

"  Thou  wilt  be  within  my  palace  ere  another  sun- 
set!" 

VI. 

And  when  evening  came,  Clia  and  her  father  and 
young  iElion  sat  together. 

"I  have  told  thee,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  that  I  must  seek  for  an  heir  who  could  protect  what 
I  must  soon  leave  behind  me." 

"Am  I  not  strong  enough,  my  father." 

"No,  my  child;  a  woman's  arm  is  not  sufficient 
guard  for  all  the  treasure  which  I  possess. 

"  Well,  hast  thou  found  one  worthy  to  be  thine  in- 
heritor  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  is  at  thy  side." 


64  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

Both  iElion  and  Clia  started, 

"Fear  not,  Clia,"  continued  Eusebius,  "he  has  thy 
father's  secret  !  and  thou,  ^Elion,  may  est  refuse  the 
inheritance  when  thou  shall  hear  it.  'Tis  but  a  cirl 
and  a  parchment ;  my  child  and  this  blessed  book," 
and  he  pressed  his  lips  reverently  to  the  volume. 

And  ^lion  turned  to  gaze  upon  Clia  ;  and  she  laid 
her  trembling  hand  in  his  and  murmured, 

"WJjere  thou  goest,  I  will  go  !" 

"Good  Eusebius,  I  will  guard  mine  inheritance 
well,"  said  ^Elion,  kneeling  beside  the  Greek  girl,  at 
the  feet  of  the  Alchymist.  And  the  old  man  marked 
a  sign,  as  of  a  cross,  upon  their  brows,  and  blessed 
them  as  they  knelt ;  then  pressed  his  lips  to  the  white 
forehead  of  his  child,  and  bade  her  go  to  her  rest. 

Some  chroniclers  liave  stated  that  ^lion  did  the 
same  ;  but  these  read  lips,  instead  o^ forehead.  Some 
liave  blamed  jElion  ;  but  the  present  chronicler  thinks 
that  he  would  have  done  the  same  in  his  situation. 

So  Clia  went  away  to  a  maiden's  love-dreams. — 
They  are,  doubtless,  briglit  ones,  and  many  a  woman 
hath  attempted  to  describe  them.  They  were  better, 
methinks,  fancied  than  painted  ;  better  dreamed  over 
than  talked  about. 

But  when  it  was  midnight,  these  dreams  of  hers 
were  rudely  broken.  The  war  as  of  a  multitude  of 
men  •  the  blast  of  the  military  trumpets,  and  the  clash 
of  cymbals.  And  above  all,  the  shout  of  "  Fire !  Fire !" 
And  she  saw  the  flames  gleaming  through  the  folds 
cf  the  tapestry  which  hung  above  lier  door ;  and  in 
anothi-r  moment,  they  burst  into  the  room,  and  she  re- 
signed hersc-lfto  die.      To  puss  from  her  love-dreams 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  65 

to  the  grave — from  the  lips  of  iElion  to  the  kisses  of 
the  worm. 

She  marked  the  cross  upon  her  forehead  and  breast, 
and  knelt  down  and  hid  her  face.  But  at  the  moment 
she  did  so,  a  man  sprung  through  the  flaming  door- 
way, caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  away.  But 
the  sudden  rescue  overpowered  her,  and  she  became 
senseless.  When  she  recovered,  she  found  herself 
lying  upon  a  low  couch,  and  the  vice-governor  bend- 
ing over  her. 

He  smiled,  and  her  heart  died  within  her.  She 
placed  her  hand  upon  her  side  ;  but  he  smiled  again, 
and  holding  up  the  small  dagger,  said, 

"  This  pretty  toy,-  beautiful  Clia,  is  in  my  posses- 
sion now." 

VII. 

The  abduction  of  the  Alchymist's  daughter  had  not 
been  accomplished  unseen :  a  slave  had  recognized 
his  mistress,  and  had  followed  the  band  of  soldiery  who 
guarded  her,  until  they  reached  the  residence  of  Eu- 
bulus.  By  this  means,  Eusebius  and  iElion  were  ap- 
prized of  the  present  dangers  threatening  Clia. 

"  I  will  go  at  once  to  his  house  and  demand  her  res- 
titution," said  iElion,  hotly. 

"  To  what  purpose,  my  son  ?  Remember,  that  the 
power  of  this  man  is  almost  unlimited.  It  will  avail 
thee  little." 

*'  Must  we,  then,  leave  Clia  to  abide  his  will  ?" 

"Not  so.     Come  with  me  to  the  Irenarch's.     The 

Alchymist  has  some  power  with  him." 
E 


OG  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

So  they  went  to  the  house  of  the  Roman  governor 
of  Corinth;  and  the  name  of  Eusebius  procured  him 
instant  admission  to  the  presence  of  the  man  of  power. 

"  So,  good  friend,"  cried  the  governor,  as  they  en- 
tered, "  thou  hast  doubtless  come  to  tell  me  of  thy  suc- 
cess. Hast  thou  found  the  secret  ?  Wilt  thou  en- 
rich  our  coffers  1  Trust  me,  they  never  were  lean- 
er !" 

"  Nay,  noble  Aulus  ;  I  am  come  but  to  beg  a  fa- 
vor." 

"  Well,  thou  dost  not  ask  many.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  My  house  was  fired  last  night,  and  my  child  car- 
ried off." 

"What!     Thy  daughter?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  But  we  have  traced  her  abduc- 
tors ;  and  have  discovered  the  spot  where  she  is  now 
confined." 

"  I  will  assuredly  help  thee,"  said  the  Roman. — 
"  Who  is  it  that  has  committed  the  outrage?" 

"  The  vice-governor !" 

"Ha!  Eubulus?" 

"  Even  he,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  scarce  know  how  to  deal  with  him :  stay," 
and  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  moment , 
then  pointing  to  iElion,  he  asked, 

«  Who  is  this  ?     Thy  son  ?" 

"  The  betrothed  of  my  child,"  replied  Eusebius. 

"Well.  Hero,  young  sir  ;  take  this  signet,  which 
will  admit  thee  anywhere  ;  and  I  will  give  thee  two  or 
three  of  my  guard.  I  will  send  for  Eubulus,  and  hold 
him  amused,  while  you  enter  his  palace  and  retrieve 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  67 

your  treasure."  And  as  he  spoke,  he  drew  a  ring 
from  his  finger,  and  gave  it  to  ^lion. 

"  There :  be  sure  to  choose  the  proper  hour.  Watch 
for  the  vice-governor's  departure,  and  then,  success 
attend  you.     Ho,  Siphax  !" 

As  he  called,  the  centurion  of  the  guard  entered. 

"  Good  Siphax,  do  thou,  and  two  of  thy  most  trust- 
worthy fellows,  go  with  these,  my  friends,  and  assisi 
them  in  their  search.  They  will  explain  all.  And, 
hark'ye,  despatch  a  messenger  to  Eubulus,  craving 
his  instant  attendance  upon  me."  And  waving  a  re- 
^  ply  to  their  thanks,  he  motioned  them  to  retire. 

VIII. 

But  why  should  our  chronicle  delay  to  tell  of  Clia's 
rescue  ?  What  love  can  dare  and  do,  has  been  the 
theme  of  romancers  and  troubadours,  too  long  to  need 
the  record  of  its  doings  here.  And  less  wonderful 
than  all  are  the  deeds  of  such  a  love  as  iElion's. — 
When  one  of  those  deep-minded,  student-men  love, 
there  is  something  awful  in  the  quiet  mightiness  of  the 
feeling.  They  look  so  calmly,  and  so  well-controlled, 
and  they  are  so  terrible  in  heart,  when  roused,  that 
those  called  passionate  men,  would  shudder  and  won- 
der to  see  them. 

Clia  was  saved — and,  at  her  father's  bidding,  set 
forth  for  a  neighboring  island,  wherein  she  would  find 
ample  protection  from  the  power  of  Eubulus. 

And  that  night,  as  the  light  shallop  that  held  them 
danced  merrily  over  the  starlit  wavelets  of  the  bay — 
and  as  iElion,  his  arm  round  Clia's  waist,  murmured 


68  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

love's  prophecies  of  happy  days  to  be,  slie  extlaimed, 
suddenly,  pointing  toward  the  shore  of  Corinth, 

"See,  iElion,  what  can  that  be  ?" 

And  as  he  looked,  he  saw  a  flame  springing  from 
the  edge  of  the  bay  and  mounting  up  toward  Heaven. 

Merrily  sped  that  shallop  on  the  bay  ;  but  little  wist 
its  voyagers  of  things  within  that  city.  The  governor 
of  Corinth,  to  escape  a  quarrel  with  Eubulus,  had  left 
the  city  as  soon  as  they  parted.  Eubulus  returned  to 
his  house  to  find  that  Clia  was  rescued.  Instantly,  he 
used  every  means  for  her  discovery,  and  when  foiled, 
turned  his  rage  against  Eusebius.  Him  he  accused 
of  sorcery.  Short  trial  was  needed ;  for  Power  ac- 
cused,  and  only  Innocence  defended.  And  the  Al- 
chymist  was  condemned. 

Merrily  sped  that  shallop  o'er  the  bay — and  mcr- 
rily  flowed  the  crowd  to  its  sandy  shore.  All  Corinth's 
people — young  and  old — the  man  who  had  forgotten 
how  to  smile — the  child  who  had  not  learned  to  sich. 
And  they  were  all  merry,  as  they  should  be,  for  they 
were  going  to  burn  a  sorcerer. 

Merrily  sped  that  shallop  o'er  the  bay,  as  they 
bound  Eusebius  to  the  stake,  and  heaped  the  faggots 
round  his  aged  limbs ;  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
Heaven,  and  prayed,  Eubulus  asked  him, 

"  Well, old  Alchymist,  what  avail  thy  studies  now  ?" 

And  the  old  man  smiled,  as  he  answered, 

"  Tliey  teach  me  to  forgive  thee." 

Merrily  si)cd  that  shallop  o'er  the  bay,  as  the  flames 
leaped  uj)  about  the  martyr;  and  tlie  mad  populace 
shouteil.  The  vice-governor  again  addressed  the  old 
man. 


THE  ALCHYMIST  OF  CORINTH.  69 

"  Hast  thou  found  the  secret,  Alchymist  ?" 
"  I  have  !" 

"  And  this  happy  land  of  thine,  where  is  it  ?" 
And  the  old  man  pointed  upward,  and  smiled,  and 
died,  as  he  answered, 
"  There  !" 


In  their  quiet  island,  they  heard  of  the  old  man's 
martyrdom  ;  and  long  and  bitterly  did  Clia  weep :  but 
the  God  of  the  fatherless  dried  her  tears  ;  and  the  lit- 
anies of  the  early  Christians  were  chanted  for  his  hap- 
py rest. 

Such  is  the  legend  of  the  Alchymist  of  Corinth. 


70  THE    LAUREL    WREATH.  ( 


THE  SEA  GULL. 


BT  MRS.  J.  WEBB. 


Bird  of  the  briny  wave  ! 

Thou  cradlest  'midst  its  foam  ! 
To  thee  it  is  a  place  of  rest, 

A  haven  and  a  home  : 
And,  when  the  tempest  howls  aloud, 
Thy  shelter  is  the  wave's  white  shroud 

Fearless  thou  spread'st  tliy  wmg. 

And  o'er  the  angry  deep, 
While  human  courage  shrinks  appalled^ 

With  gladness  thou  dost  sweep : 
Joy  sparkles  in  thy  brilliant  eye, 
When  tempests  rage  and  waves  run  high. 

When  on  the  wave  thou'st  danced  thy  tilL 

Within  some  rocky  cleft — 
Where  thou  perchance  at  morning  dawn 

Thy  mate  and  younglings  left — 
Thou  hiest  again,  with  laden  bill. 
To  feed  and  guard  thy  brood  from  ill. 

Oh,  happy  bird!  I  fain,  like  thee. 
Would  leave  the  haunts  of  man, 

And  on  the  wave,  or  in  the  clilf, 
Wear  out  life's  weary  span  : 

Content  to  leave  the  verdant  sod 

For  sea,  for  sky,  and  Nature's  God. 


L^ 


/^ 


■<L:^e^.y//i 


HUMANITY.  71 


HUMANITY. 


BT  HORACE  GREELEY,  ESQ. 


The  watchword  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  is  Bro- 
therhood. Rapid  and  wonderful  as  is  the  progress 
of  Physical  Science — valuable  to  Man  as  are  the 
Steamboat,  the  Railroad,  the  Magnetic  Telegraph — 
mighty  as  are  the  results  attained,  mightier  the  hopes 
excited  and  justified,  by  the  march  of  discovery  and 
invention — the  great  discovery  being  made,  and  to  be 
made  by  the  children  of  men  is  that  of  their  commu- 
nity of  origin,  of  interests,  of  aspirations.  'God  hath 
made  of  one  blood  all  people,'  is  its  essence,  proclaim- 
ed many  years  ago ;  the  new  truth  is  but  the  old  re- 
alized and  made  practical.  Humanity  refuses  longer 
to  be  separated  and  arrayed  against  itself.  Whoever 
oppresses  or  injures  any  human  being,  however  abject 
or  culpable,  wrongs  and  tramples  all  men,  himself  in- 
cluded. 

A  grave,  momentous  truth — let  it  be  heard  and 
heeded.  Hear  it,  grim  and  ruthless  warrior  !  eager 
to  rush  over  myriads  of  gashed  and  writhing  bodies 
to  coveted  fame  and  power !  These  thou  wouldst  so 
readily  trample  into  the  earth  are  not  really  enemies, 
not  merely  victims — not  something  which  may  be 
separated  from  thee  and  thine  :  they  are  thy  fellows, 


72  THE    LAUREL    WREATH, 

kinsmen,  brctlircn — with  thee,  members  of  one  anoth- 
er !  and  of  Humanity.  The  sword  which  hews  them 
down,ma;ms  thee :  the  hoof  that  tramples  them,wounds 
thee.  No  armor  ever  devised  by  cunning  or  selfish- 
ness  can  prevent  this :  no  walls  of  stone  or  living  men 
can  ward  off  the  blow.  As  surely  as  the  verdant  tree 
must  mark  its  shadow  in  the  sunshine — as  surely  as 
the  stone  projected  upward  will  not  rest  in  mid-air, 
but  descend — so  surely  falls  the  evil  on  him  by  whom 
evil  is  done  or  meditated. 

Miser  !  heaping  up  fresh  hoards  of  yellow  dross ' 
thou  ai't  starving,  not  others  only,  but  thyself !  Bread 
may  fdl  thy  garners,  and  thy  vaults  be  stored  with 
ruddy  wines ;  but  Plenty  cannot  come  where  dwells 
the  insatiable  thirst  for  more ;  and  baleful  are  the 
possessions  which  contract  the  brow  and  harden 
the  heart ;  speedy  and  sure  is  the  judgment  which 
avenges  the  woes  of  thy  pale,  hollow-cheeked  vic- 
tims! 

Libertine  !  believe  not  that  the  anguish  thou  so 
recklessly  invokcst  on  others  shall  leave  thee  unscath- 
ed !  The  contrary  is  written  in  the  law  whose  date 
is  Eternity,  whose  sphere  the  Universe.  Fleeting 
and  hollow  are  the  guilty  joys  thou  scekest,  while  the 
crimes  by  which  they  are  compassed  shall  darken  thy 
soul  and  embitter  thy  thoughts  forever! 

And  thou,  humble,  self-denying  votary  of  the  high- 
est good — the  good  of  thy  brethren,  thy  fellow-beings 
— vainly  shalt  thou  strive  to  sacrifice  thy  own  happi- 
ness to  brighten  the  dark  pathway  of  the  needy,  the 
wretched :  the  kindly  fates  will  not  permit  it  ;  [leav- 
en will  persist  in  promptly   repaying  thee  inon^  and 


HUMANITY.  73 

better  than  thou  hast  given.  Give  all  thou  hast  to 
lighten  the  burthens  of  others  to-day,  and  the  boun- 
teous reward  will  not  wait  for  to-morrow's  sun.  It  will 
insist  on  making  thee  richer,  in  thy  hunger  and  naked- 
ness, than  the  king  amid  his  pomp,  the  banker  amid 
his  treasures.  Thy  riches  are  safe  from  every  device 
of  villany,  from  every  access  of  calamity ;  they  can- 
not be  separated  from,  nor  made  unavailable  to  thee. 
While  thou  art,  they  shall  be  to  thee  a  chasteaed  glad- 
ness, a  tranquil  rapture  forever  ! 

And  thou,  saintly  devotee,  and  shrine  of  all  virtues  ! 
look  not  down  in  loathing,  but  in  pity,  on  the  ruined 
votary  of  vice  and  crime.  He  is  here  to  teach  thee 
not  pride,  but  humility.  The  corrupt,  revolting  thing 
he  is,  tells  thee  what  thou  mightest  easily  have  been, 
had  not  Divine  Goodness,  for  its  own  high  ends,  no* 
thine,  willed  otherwise.  The  drunkard's  maudlin 
leer — the  lecher's  marred  and  hideous  visage — the 
thief's  catlike  tread  and  greedy  eyes — even  the  mur- 
derer's stony  heart  and  reeking  hand — all  these,  right- 
ly viewed,  are  but  indications  of  the  possibilities  of 
thy  own  nature,  commanding  gratitude  to  God,  and 
compassion  for  all  human  errors. 

Ay,  "we  are  all  members  together  of  one  body." 
Whether  blackened  by  the  fervid  sun  of  tropical  de- 
serts, or  bleached  by  the  fogs  of  a  colder  clime — whe- 
ther worshiping  God  or  the  Grand  Lama,  erecting 
Christian  altars  in  the  savage  wilderness,  or  falling  in 
frenzy  beneath  the  wheels  of  Juggernaut — whether 
acting  the  part  of  a  Washington  or  a  Nicholas,  a  How- 
ard or  a  Thug — the  same  red  current  courses  through 

all  our  veins — the  same  essential  nature  reveals  itself 

D 


74  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 


throufrh  all.  Tlie  slave  in  his  cofile,  the  overseer 
brandishing  his  wliip,  the  abolitionist  denouncing  op- 
pression — who  shall  say  that  any  one  of  these  might 
not  have  been  trained  to  do  the  deeds  and  think  the 
thoughts  of  any  other  ?  Who  shall  say  that  the  red- 
handed  savage  of  the  wilds  might  not  have  been  the 
meek,  benign  village  pastor,  blessing  and  blest  by  all 
around  him,  if  his  lot  had  been  cast  in  Vermont  in- 
stead  of  Oregon  ?  Who  shall  say  how  far  his  crimes 
are  treasured  up  against  him  in  the  great  account,  and 
how  far  they  are  charged  to  the  perverting,  darkening 
force  of  Christian  rapacity  and  fraud,  or  esteemed  the 
result  of  a  Christian  indifference  and  lethargy — only 
less  culpable? 

Away,  then,  from  human  sight  with  the  hideous  im- 
plements  of  human  butchery  and  destruction !  Break 
the  sword  in  its  scabbard,  bury  the  cannon  in  the 
earth,  sink  the  bombs  in  the  ocean  !  What  business 
have  these  to  disturb  by  their  hateful  presence  the  vis- 
ible  harmony  of  God's  universe  ?  How  dare  men  go 
out  into  the  balmy  air  and  bright  sunshine,  and  there, 
in  the  full  view  of  Heaven,  essay  to  maim  and  massa- 
cre each  other?  How  would  their  wretched  babble- 
ment of  National  interests  or  National  honor  sound,  if 
addressed  directly  to  the  All-Ruling,  as  an  apology 
for  wholesale  slaughter  ?  Who  would  dare  be  their 
mouth-piece  in  prollering  an  excuse  so  pitiful  ?  And 
do  not  the  abettors  of  war  realize  that  their  vile  ap- 
peals  to  the  baser  passions  of  our  nature  resound  in  the 
cars  of  the  Recording  Angel  ?  # 

But  not  war  alone,  the  grossest  form  of  human  an- 
tagonism, but  every    form,    is  destined  to  a  speedy 


HUMANITY.  75 

extinction.  The  celestial  voice  that  asked  of  old 
the  terrific  question,  "  Where  is  thy  brother  Abel  ?" 
shall  yet  be  heard  and  responded  to  by  every  one 
who  would  win  profit  or  enjoyment  from  that  which 
oppresses  or  degrades  a  single  human  being.  The 
oppressor,  the  dram-seller,  the  gamester,  are  al- 
ready beginning  to  listen,  perforce,  to  its  searching 
appeal  —  listen,  at  first,  perhaps,  with  frowns,  and 
sneers,  and  curses ;  but  even  these  are  symptoms 
of  the  inward  convulsion  —  first  mutterings  of  the 
mighty  earthquake  at  hand. 

In  the  day  of  light  now  dawning,  no  relation  so 
palpably  vicious  as  theirs  can  possibly  abide.  But 
theirs  are  the  rude,  salient  outworks,  which  cover, 
while  they  stand  the  smoother,  ampler,  sturdier  cit- 
adel of  error.  That  all-pervading  selfishness,  which 
forgets  or  disregards  the  general  well-being,  is  yet 
to  be  tracked  to  its  most  secret  recesses,  and  extir- 
pated. 

The  avocations  of  Life,  the  usages  and  structure 
of  Society,  the  relations  of  Power  to  Humility,  of 
Wealth  to  Poverty,  of  served  and  servant,  must  all 
be  fused  in  the  crucible  of  Human  Brotherhood, 
and  whatever  abides  not  the  test,  rejected.  Vainly 
will  any  seek  to  avert  or  escape  the  ordeal  —  idly 
will  any  hope  to  preserve  from  it  some  darling  lust 
of  pampered  luxury  or  vanity.  Onward,  upward, 
irresistibly,  shall  move  the  Spirit  of  Reform,  abas- 
ing the  proud,  exalting  the  lowly,  until  Sloth  and 
Selfishness,  Tyranny  and  Slavery,  Waste  and  Want, 
Ignorance  and  Corruption,  shall  be  swept  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  a  golden  age  of  Knowledge, 


76  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

of  Virtuo,  of  Plenty,  and  Happiness,  shall  da\\n 
upon  our  sinning  and  sufiering  Race.  Heaven  speed 
its  glorious  coming  and  prepare  us  to  welcome  and 
enjoy  it ! 


TO  A  STAR. 


TO  A  STAR. 

BY    ERNEST    HELTKNSTEIN. 

"  As  your  faith  is,  be  it  unto  you." 

For  many  a  long  and  weary  night,  bright  star, 
I've  watched  thy  tardy  coming ;  thy  sisters  came. 

Unheeded  passed  —  their  mission  was  afar. 
To  hearts  that  waited,  as  I  wait  thy  flame. 
Thou  beautiful !  unchangeably  the  same  ! 

A  thousand  stars  move,  side  by  side,  with  thee, 
And  sweetly  each  are  votive  hearts  beguiling ; 

But  thou,  O  thou  alone,  bright  one  !  for  me 

Dost  seem  to  keep  thy  light  with  love-rays  smiling, 
And  me  from  care,  and  me  from  grief  art  wiling. 

Last  night,  around  thy  throned  pavilion  hung 
The  darkness  of  the  storm  —  nor  came  one  ray 

To  cheer  my  lonely  lattice,  yet  I  clung 

To  my  sweet  faith,  that  thou  wert  there  alway, 
Again  to  smile  when  passed  the  stormy  day. 

Perchance  I  worship  a  deluding  ray  — 
Thou  art  no  star  ;  art  but  a  point  of  light 

Left  in  the  track  of  one,  long  passed  away 
To  other  spheres,  where  constellations  bright 
Usher  to  other  worlds  a  glorious  night. 


78  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

Go,  go,  I  will  not  worship  thee  the  less ; 
Thou  art  a  real,  if  I  make  thee  so  — 

Thou  art  a  star,  a  star  my  night  to  bless ; 
And  no  stray  beam,  which  perished  long  ago, 
Hath  the  brig'nt  world  from  wncnce  thy  beaminga 
flow. 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  79 


THE   CONSPIRATORS: 

A   ROMANTIC    TALE    OF    THE    MIDDLE    AGES. 
BY   J.    P.    BRACE,    ESQ. 

The  last  lamps  had  expired  in  the  streets  of  Florence, 
and  the  gloomy  darkness  of  a  moonless  midnight  had  en- 
shrouded  her  splendid  palaces.  The  lover's  lute  was  no 
longer  heard  beneath  the  window  of  his  mistress,  for  the 
massive  clouds,  as  they  marched  in  sombre  battallions 
from  the  top  of  the  Appenines,  had  warned  him  of  the 
coming  storm.  The  latticed  bower  of  the  tender 
maiden  was  closed,  and  love  and  music  were  forgotten 
as  the  wind  howled  its  hoarse  notes  through  the  pop- 
lars and  larches  of  the  avenues.  Even  the  Arno, 
wont  to  sing  his  song  of  peace  and  love  to  the  nightin- 
gale amid  the  roses  on  his  banks,  now  roared  tumult- 
uously  in  the  rising  gale,  like  the  sound  of  a  rushing 
multitude.  The  Ducal  palace  itself,  the  resort  of  the 
gay,  the  enlightened,  and  the  scientific,  was  now  silent 
in  all  its  courts,  and  but  here  and  there  a  night-lamp 
darted  its  dim  rays  over  the  splendid  monuments  of 
art  around. 

In  this  gloomy  night,  as  the  midnight  chime  tolled 
the  hour  of  twelve,  a  few  scattered  figures,  rolled  up 
in  their  long  cloaks,  were  seen,  one  by  one,  to  creep 
out  of  the  suburbs  of  the  city  and  enter  one  of  the  se- 
pulchral  vaults  in  its  neighborhood.     The  cemetery 


lb 


80  TILE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

which  these  wanderers  of  the  night  had  chosen  foi 
their  meeting  was  one  of  a  number  of  laro;e  caverna 
in  the  environs  of  the  city,  which  had  been  selected 
as  a  fit  repository  for  the  ashes  of  the  dead  by  one  of 
the  noble  families  in  Florence  now  in  decline. — 
Around  its  huge  stone  sides,  the  coffins  of  other  gen- 
erations were  arranged  ;  some  of  the  oldest  of  which 
having  given  away  to  the  effects  of  time,  the  bones  of 
the  dead  in  all  their  ghastly  whiteness,  and  the  naked 
skulls  in  their  grinning  mockery  were  scattered  over 
the  rude  stone  floor. 

The  train  having  entered,  one  by  one,  the  entrance 
of  the  vault  was  closed,  and  then  a  few  faint  lamps 
and  the  flickering  light  of  a  few  torches  feebly  illumi- 
nated the  sides  of  the  close,  damp,  gloomy  house  of 
death.  The  recent  coffins  supplied  the  seats,  and 
eaoji  in  silence  looked  to  one  who  appeared  the 
leader  of  the  throng,  as  if  they  expected  him  to  break 
the  stillness  that  seemed,  like  the  damps  of  the  cliarncl- 
housc  where  they  were,  to  be  creeping  over  them. 
Painful  emotions  seemed  to  be  struggling  in  the  breast 
of  this  leader.  His  age  might  be  about  forty — but 
tlie  haggard  and  care-worn  cheek,  thin,  but  stained 
with  the  fires  of  indulgence  made  him  appear  older. 
His  eye  once  had  been  good,  but  the  wildness  of  un- 
lawful passions  and  unrestrained  temper  liad  withered 
its  beauty,  and  dried  up  its  expression.  As  he  looked 
around  on  the  bones  of  Jiis  ancestors  now  crumblintr 
about  him;  ancestors  renowned  in  the  conflicts  of 
Italy,  liis  spirit  almost  suidc  within  him  at  th(!  con- 
trast. 

"  It  ill   becomes  Ihi;  last  member  of  the  Iiousc  o^ 


THE  co:nspiratoes.  81 

Ursini,"  said  he,  Avaving  his  hand  as  if  to  drive  from 
his  mind  the  imacres  that  thron^'d  around  it,  "amid 
these  torn  and  moulderinor  banners  that  float  around 
liim,  to  speak  of  his  ancestral  dignity.  You  all  well 
know,  when  these  arms  now  crumbling  around  us, 
were  in  their  sockets,  and  strong  in  their  flesh,  that  no 
base  usurper  dared  sway  the  sceptre  of  power  in 
Florence.  And  yet,  Prospero  Ursini,  possessed  of  the 
same  blood  that  once  animated  all  this  dust,  lives  to 
tell  you  that  a  stranger  oppresses  Florence ;  and 
Prospero  Ursini  dares  not  repeat  this  truth  to  the 
friends  of  his  family  only  in  the  vault  of  his  ances- 
tors, at  the  hour  of  midnight  and  tempest.  I  have 
summoned  you  here,  where  the  emissaries  of  the  ty- 
rant cannot  reach  us,  to  further  that  great  plan,  we 
have  privately  formed  to  drive  by  stealth  or  by  force, 
the  proud  Colonna  from  the  city.  The  few  adherents 
of  my  house  that  time  and  the  tyrant  have  left  to  me, 
shall  be  inarms  immediately,  and  for  myself,  as  leader, 
or  as  follower,  I  here  devote  myself  to  one  great  ob- 
ject.    Speak,  all  of  you,  will  you  not  assist  me  ?" 

He  looked  around  on  the  Conspirators  with  an  air  of 
confidence,  which  changed  to  surprise  and  almost  to 
anger,  as  he  saw  their  downcast  eyes  and  averted 
looks. 

"Need  ye  more  motives,"  he  exclaimed,  "than  the 
oppression  of  one  who  pretends  to  gild  the  bitter  pill 
of  tyranny  by  a  boast  of  the  public  good?  Are  ye 
Florentines,  and  not  ready  to  hazard  something  for 
your  rights  ?  Need  I  tell  you,  Poggio  Valentius,  of 
your  plundered  property,  of  your  burnt  villa,  and  de- 
populated patrimony  ?  Need  I  paint  to  j'ou,  Foscari, 
F  D2 


82  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

the  haughty  form  of  Pedro  Colonna  in  the  syndic's 
chair,  yours  by  right  and  by  ability  ?  Shall  I  tell  you, 
Cosmo  Rledicis,  of  your  expulsion  from  the  Ducal 
palace,  or  warn  Tremori  of  the  unexecuted  sentence 
of  what  the  Duke  pleases  to  call  law  ?  Are  ye  men, 
and  not  roused  to  action  ?" 

"  All  this  is  true,"  replied  Foscari,  "  and  we  feel 
these  insults  throbbing  in  every  vein,  but  how  useless, 
how  presumptuous,  with  our  slender  means,  to  over- 
turn such  established  authority.  It  would  be  mad- 
ness.  The  great  military  reputation  of  the  Duke 
draws  too  many  followers  around  him  for  us  to  hope 
for  success  while  his  great  and  active  spirit  pervades 
the  soldiery.  Nay,  chafe  not,  Ursini,  we  mean  well 
to  your  cause,  but  your  plan  is  rash." 

"  Prospero  Ursini,"  said  a  deep  harsh  voice  from 
behind,  "he  is  right." 

The  group  started  on  their  feet,  and  turned  to  the 
part  of  the  cavern  whence  the  sound  issued  ;  a  tall, 
large  man,  stood  wi-apped  in  a  long  black  cloak. 

"  We  are  betrayed,"  said  Ursmi ;  "  friends,  draw 
and  place  the  villian  beyond  the  power  of  injuring  us." 

In  an  instant,  more  than  twenty  swords  were  at  his 
breast.  A  smile  of  contemptuous  defiance  curled  the 
lip  of  the  stranger,  as  a  single  sweep  of  his  unweap- 
oned  arm  levelled  every  sword  within  its  reach  at  his 
feet. 

"Stop  such  childish  sword's  play,"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  that  quelled  their  very  blood  within 
them,  "  hear  me  ;  I  came  not  to  betray — but  to  assist. 
Did  1  wisli  to  betray,  wiiat  prevented  me  from  sur- 
rounding tlie  niitulli  of  this  sepulchre  with  the  tyrant's 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  83 

guards,  and  sending  you  in  an  instant  to  join  these 
crumbling  bones.  Prospero  Ursini,  your  object  can- 
not  be  accomplished  by  your  plan.  The  citizens  of 
Florence  opposed  to  the  sway  of  the  Colonnas  will 
not  enroll  themselves  beneath  you ;  beloved  as  your 
name  is  here,  the  remembrance  of  the  follies  and 
vices  of  your  youth  is  too  fresh  in  their  recollection. 
They  know  you  to  be  eloquent,  but  versatile,  and  they 
know  you  are  no  match  to  the  calm,  cool  bravery  of 
the  Duke.  These  are  plain  truths,  Ursini,  and  you 
must  hear  them  without  the  flush  of  ofience  on  your 
cheek,  for  they  are  truths." 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  stranger  had  drawn 
nearer  the  light,  and  the  whole  assembly  were  struck 
with  wonder  at  the  character  of  his  countenance. 
There  was  a  spirit  of  insubordination,  of  pride,  and 
of  restlessness,  stamped  upon  his  strong  and  fiery 
visage,  that  marked,  a  bold  and  daring,  but  wicked 
character.  His  face  was  one  perfect  volcano  of  ex- 
pression. Every  line  and  muscle  in  it  were  alive  with 
some  wild  passion,  and  were  continually  changing 
through  all  the  moods  of  ungoverned  feeling.  When 
one  dared  to  look  on  his  varying  countenance,  it  was 
plainly  seen  that  no  mildness  had  ever  quenched  the 
fire  in  his  eye,  and  softness  relaxed  his  muscles.  To 
tell  the  color  of  that  eye  was  almost  impossible. 
'Twas  black  as  night,  and  yet  it  was  fire — not  the 
bright  cheering  blaze  of  the  sun's  golden  light,  but 
like  the  lurid  flames  of  hell  amid  the  darkness  of  the 
infernal  regions.  But  the  varied  expressions  of  those 
orbs  were  almost  unimaginable.  Ungovered  rage 
would  sometimes  dart  its  flames;  malice  with  con- 


S4  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

tracted  eye-brow,  would  look  in  fiendish  mockery  and 
joy  from  its* darkness;  and  revenge,  with  its  sullen 
scowl,  ^\•ould  lend  its  diabolical  light  to  the  eye-ball; 
and  if  no  powerful  passion  rolled  over  the  soul  and 
sent  its  blaze  and  smoke  from  the  eye,  the  broad  un- 
endurable stare  of  pride  and  haughtiness,  of  superi- 
ority felt  and  acknowledged — but  superiority  only  in 
wickedness,  would  elevate  the  eye-brow  and  dilate  the 
eye.  There  were  some  moments,  when  no  one  savv 
him,  when  the  expression  of  intense  mental  suffering 
would  seem  to  strain  to  agony  those  eyes — when  the 
contractions  of  revenge  on  the  brow  would  give  place 
to  the  contractions  of  pain,  and  the  sneer  of  contempt 
around  the  mouth  to  writhings  of  suppressed  torment ; 
but  man  never  saw  these  moments,  and  the  right  hand 
elevated  in  defiance  to  heaven,  and  the  blasphemy 
uttered  by  the  lips  showed  that  suflJering  never  pro- 
duced reformation  or  contrition  in  him.  Such  was  this 
stranger's  countenance,  as  afterward  seen  and  learnt 
by  the  assembled  conspirators.  Now  the  tumult  of 
the  moment  left  them  no  room  for  speculations  in 
physiognomy. 

"  Who  are  you,  terrific  one,"  said  Ursini,  "and  how 
came  you  here?  I  myself  admitted  this  group,  and 
counted  them  as  they  entered." 

"No  matter  who  I  am,"  replied  the  stranger,  "or 
how  I  came  here.  Give  yourselves  up  to  my  guid. 
ance,  and  your  object  is  obtained." 

"What  proof,"  said  the  conspirators,  "will  you 
give  us  of  your  fidelity  to  our  object?  Powerful  as 
your  personal  strength  is,  you  are  nameless  aiul  a 
8traiig(!r." 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  85 

"Proof!"  uttered  the  stranger,  "proof! — the  suc- 
cess of  your  plans !  Hark,  thee,  Foscari,  can  that 
being  want  power  to  further  your  objects,  or  ability  to 
carry  them  into  execution,  who  can  tell  you  what  this 
morning  saw  you  perform  in  your  secret  apartment. 
Remember  the  vows  of  Marcia  Adaponi,  and  be  quiet. 
But  I  will  now  give  you  one  proof  of  my  fidelity  that 
will  convince  you — you  even  now  have  a  traitor  among 
you.  Marco  Palazzo  yonder  came  here  this  night  to 
report  your  proceedings  to  the  Duke.  He  even  now 
carries  a  letter  from  Colonna  about  him,  requesting 
him  to  ascertain  if  plots  against  his  government  are 
in  agitation,  and  promising  reward  to  his  dicoveries 
Search  him  and  see." 

In  an  instant  Palazzo  was  struck  to  the  ground  by 
the  exasperated  assembly,  and  the  fatal  scroll  found 
upon  him  as  the  stranger  had  asserted. 

"  What  shall  be  done  ?"  said  Ursini.  "  It  should  ap- 
pear  that  Colonna  as  yet  does  not  suspect  us." 

"Done!"  replied  the  stranger,  "dead  men  tell  no 
tales,  and  the  sepulchre  is  ready." 

A  dozen  daggers  were  instantly  buried  in  his  body. 
The  conspirators  were  all  too  busy  to  note  the  smile 
of  contemptuous  joy  and  gratified  malice  that  curled 
the  lip  and  flashed  in  the  eye  of  the  stranger  at  the 
deed. 

"  We  are  convinced,  noble  stranger,"  cried  the 
group,  as  they  arose  reeking  from  the  murder  of  Pa- 
lazzo ;  "  we  need  no  more  proof.  You  shall  be  oui 
leader." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  cold,  dry  tone  ; 
"  but  I,  too,  must  ])ave  some  pledge  that  you  will  not 


86  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

desert  me.  I  ask  not  for  reward  in  this  bold  enterprise. 
The  honors  and  the  wealth  of  Florence  are  nothing  tc 
me.  Share  them  among  you.  What  I  shall  demand 
from  you,  for  my  assistance,  you  shall  know  hereafter; 
in  the  meantime,  to  give  me  some  pledge  of  your  pres- 
ent sincerity,  draw  in  a  circle  around  this  body." 

They  all 'complied  with  the  request,  awe-struck  by 
the  stern,  overbearing  expression  of  his  face.  He 
then  extended  the  body  at  length  on  one  of  the  coffins, 
and  placed  the  lamps  upon  it.  He  then  bared  the 
wounds,  and  dipping  his  hand  in  the  blood,  he  extend- 
ed it  to  the  group. 

"  Swear,"  said  he,  "  by  this  blood  that  you  have 
shed,  that  you  will  stand  by  me,  with  soul  and  with 
spirit,  with  strength  of  body  and  firmness  of  purpose, 
in  the  grand  object  we  have  undertaken.  Swear 
this  !" 

"  We  swear  it,"  was  the  united  reply. 

He  then,  with  his  bloody  finger,  drew  a  mark  on 
their  foreheads  and  touched  tlieir  lips. 

"  You  have  now,"  continued  he,  "  tasted  of  blood 
slied  by  your  own  liands.  You  have  now  received 
my  mark  on  your  foreheads.  Swear  you  will  be 
mine,  from  this  time  and  forever !" 

"  We  swear  it,"  was  again  the  reply.  "  From  this 
moment  we  are  thine." 

An  exulting  laugh,  discordant  as  the  shout  of  Hell, 
burst  from  tlie  stranger's  lips,  and,  with  its  sou7iJs  of 
mockery  and  derision,  echoed  far  down  the  stony  vault. 
It  almost  seemed  to  the  wondering  conspirators  as  if 
otiier  voices  took  up  the   sound,    and  other  laughs  of 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  87 

mockery  and  derision  and  exultation  burst  from  ever> 
corner  of  the  sepulcher. 

"Attend  now  to  my  plan,  and  the  means  of  carry- 
ing it  into  execution.  Your  object  has  been  to  raise 
the  citizens  of  Florence,  and  by  open  war  to  drive 
the  Colonnas  from  their  power.  This  will  not  do. 
The  Duke  is  an  old  soldier,  well  skilled  in  warfare. 
His  army  are  personally  attached  to  him,and  would  stand 
by  him  through  right  or  wrong.  Were  he  removed, 
that  army  would  soon  crumble  away  without  their 
head.  His  brother  Pedro  is  too  unpopular  with  them 
to  control  them  in  the  least ;  and  the  Duke's  children 
are  either  females  or  too  young  to  succeed  him  in  his 
plans.  The  Duke,  then,  must  be  removed,  and  our 
object  is  attained.  But  to  show  you  that  I  do  not  ad- 
vise that  which  I  am  unwilling  to  perform,  I  myself 
will  undertake  that  office.  I  will  mingle  among  the 
Duke's  adherents,  and  will  seek  an  opportunity  of 
ending  him.  In  the  meantime,  do  you  mingle  with 
the  citizens  of  Florence — appear  to  have  forgotten  your 
animosities  to  the  existing  government — make  your- 
selves useful  and  popular.  I  shall  delay  the  blow  un- 
til you  are  ready  with  your  adherents  for  open  revolt, 
and  then  the  death  of  Ludovico  Colonna  will  easily 
give  you  the  superiority.     Shall  it  be  done  ?" 

"  We  are  perfectly  satisfied,"  was  the  reply. 

"  We  meet,  then,  no  more  at  present.  When  you 
see  me  at  court,  know  me  by  the  rame  of  Diavolo; 
but  view  me  as  a  stranger.     Let  us  depart." 


The  next  day  to  the  meeting  of  the  conspirators, 
Ludovico  Colonna  entered  his  palace,  conducting  a 


88  THE    LAUREL    WKEATH. 

youthful  stranger.  The  Duke  was  pale  with  some 
su])pressed  emotion,  and  the  younger  members  of  his 
family  crowded  around  him  with  great  anxiety. 

"  To  this  youth,"  said  he,  appealing  to  the  group 
of  children  and  domestics,  ^'owe  I  this  day  the  preser- 
vation of  my  honor.  Accusations  were  brought 
against  me  in  the  council,  Mhich  this  young  man  was 
enabled — how,  1  know  not — to  disprove.  I  then  grate- 
fully promised  him  my  protection.  He  tells  me  he  is 
of  noble  birth  in  Naples,  but  unfortunate;  he,  there- 
fore, has  still  higher  claims  upon  my  support.  Re- 
ceive him,  then,  as  an  inmate  ;  be  grateful  to  him  for 
what  he  has  done  for  me ;  love  him  for  what  he  may 
prove  himself  to  be." 

The  eycsof  the  wondering  family  were  turned  up- 
on the  stranger.  Seldom  was  a  finer  form  or  nobler  face 
presented  to  their  view.  Above  the  middle  size,  sym- 
metry and  strength  had  marked  his  system.  The  fea- 
tures of  his  face  were  of  the  Roman  stamp,  and  mark- 
ed, when  stationary,  an  apparently  noble  soul.  The 
flexibility  of  his  muscles,  the  large  and  easily  turned 
black  eye,  the  motion  of  his  jetty  eye-brows,  show  cd  a 
capability  of  expression  and  strength  of  feeling,  though 
controled,  hardly  equalled. 

"  By  what  name,"  said  a  beautiful  girl,  the  eldest 
child  of  the  Duke,  "by  what  name  are  we  to  distin- 
guish our  guest  ?" 

"My  name  is  Diavolo,"  replied  the  stranjer,  "and 
I  trust  that  my  future  adherence  to  this  family  will 
not  disappoint  the  confidence  the  Grand  Duke  has 
been  pleased  to  bestow  upon  me." 

Tlio  maiden  started,  as  the  l)ri!.dit  black  eve  of  the 


THE    CONSPIRATORS*  ,  89 

stranger  rested  upon  her  in  its  strength  of  beauty. — 
She  thought,  for  the  moment,  she  had  never  seen  a 
more  fascinating  smile  play  in  its  sunny  loveliness 
about  the  mouth  of  any  one,  or  an  eye  look  upon  her 
in  such  power  of  manly  beauty. 

Days,  weeks,  and  even  months,  glided  by,  and  still 
Diavolo  remained  in  the  palace  of  Colonna,  as  a  pri- 
vate secretary  of  the  Duke,  attaching  his  master  to 
him  by  his  prompt,  active,  and  intelligent  services,  and 
exciting  the  admiration  of  the  lovely  Lauretta  Colonna 
by  his  varied  accomplishments. 

Almost  every  day,  as  Diavolo  passed  the  market- 
place, or  went  to  the  Senate  house,  in  a  passing  whis- 
per he  would  inquire  of  Ursini  or  Foscari,  whether  all 
things  were  ready ;  and  notice,  with  a  sneer  of  con- 
tempt, the  shake  of  the  head  in  reply. 

Colonna's  government  was  so  mild  and  equitable — 
the  burdens  of  the  people  so  light — and  he  himself  so 
affable  and  easy  of  access,  that  few  complaints  were 
heard;  and  even  the  separate  adherents  of  the  families 
of  the  conspirators  were  but  easily  roused  into  action. 
Ludovico  Colonna  was  now  past  the  period  of  middle 
life,  and  though  bred  a  soldier,  and  though  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  government  of  Florence  by  a  faction 
and  a  civil  war,  yet  he  aimed  to  be  called  the  father 
of  his  people  ;  and  nought  but  the  jealousy  of  faction 
would  have  ever  found  fault  with  his  administration. 
lie  had  instituted  profitable  manufactures — had  en- 
couraged a  taste  for  the  fine  arts,  which  afterward 
made  Florence  the  ornament  of  Italy,  and  had  made 
himself  so  formidable  to  the  neighboring  powers  by  the 


90  THE   LAIJEEL  WEEATH. 

energy  and  strength  of  his  government,  that  he  was 
beloved  at  home,  and  feared  and  respected  abroad. 

In  private,  he  was  the  affectionate  father,  the  kind 
master,  the  intelligent  citizen — and  taste  and  elegance 
and  learning  seemed  to  have  made  the  Ducal  palace 
of  Florence  their  residence  ;  while  the  slight  and  airy 
form  of  Lauretta  Colonna  seemed  to  hover  around  the 
monuments  of  genius  and  of  taste,  like  the  moonbeams 
upon  silver  columns,  giving  a  grace  and  a  softness  to 
the  richness  and  elegance  around  her.  Hers  was  not 
the  regularity  of  beauty  or  the  splendorof  perfection  ; 
it  was  the  gaiety  of  a  sunny  heart,  shining  like  the 
amber  glow  of  sunset  upon  her  pure  complexion,  in 
her  bright  blue  eye,  and  over  her  bewitching  features. 

Placed  within  the  influence  of  her  beauty,  Diavolo 
thought  it  would  be  an  addition  to  his  plan  to  gain  her 
love.  Every  day,  then,  he  spread  before  her  the  fas- 
cinations of  his  accomplishments,  the  elegance  and 
refinement  of  his  manners,  the  extent  of  his  know- 
ledge,  and  the  extreme  beauty  of  his  person.  Perhaps 
no  young  girl  can  be  every  day  with  a  man  of  ele- 
gance, beauty,  and  genius,  see  him  in  the  familiarities 
of  ordinary  intercourse,  without  loving  him  ?  Lau- 
retta saw  him  when  the  eyes  of  her  father  and  the 
aged  were  held  in  rapture  upon  him,  as  his  eloquence 
marked  out  the  political  relations  of  Europe.  Was  it 
wonderful  that  she  respected  him  ?  She  saw  him  the 
center  of  a  group  of  admiring  youth,  fascinated  by  his 
poetry  and  iiis  music.  Was  it  wondrrful  tliiil  slie  ad- 
mired him  ?  Slie  saw  him  in  her  own  bower  by  moou- 
'^^ht,  alone,  wlicn  the  ardor  of   passion  shone  in  his 


THE   CONSPIRATORS.  91 

soft  eye,  and  murmured  in  his  suppressed  sigh ;  and 
was  it  wonderful  that  she  loved  him  ? 

One  beautiful  evening,  the  gay,  the  beautiful,  and 
the  noble  of  Florence,  had  assembled  at  the  Ducal  pal- 
ace. All  was  elegance  and  animation  ;  but  Lauretta 
could  not  be  gay  or  animated.  She  followed  the  form 
of  Diavolo,  as  he  passed  her  to  and  fro  in  the  splendid 
crowds,  and  listened  with  breathless  attention  to  the 
rich  deep  tones  of  his  voice,  as  they  were  heard  from 
group  to  group.  She  could  not  bear  the  gaiety,  and 
retired  in  sadness  to  a  recess.  Diavolo  soon  joined 
her,  and  from  his  tenderness  of  inquiry  and  softness 
of  tone,  she  soon  learnt  what  her  bosom  had  long  de- 
sired to  know — that  she  was  beloved.  The  delirium 
of  transport  with  which  she  gazed  for  a  moment  on 
those  soft  eyes,  now  beaming  in  love  upon  her,  was  too 
much  ;  and  she  closed  her  eyes  in  the  excess  of  her 
happiness.  When  she  opened  them,  Diavolo  was 
speaking  to  two  persons,  who  hurried  him  from  the 
recess. 

They  were  Ursini  and  Foscari,  who  had  come  to  in- 
form him  that  five  thousand  French  were  then  con- 
cealed in  the  neighborhood  of  Florence,  and  that  all 
was  ready  for  their  deed.  As  Lauretta  left  her  sta- 
tion, her  bosom  heaving  with  its  happiness,  she  dis- 
covered the  company  had  departed.  Seizing  a  lamp, 
she  was  hurrying  to  her  apartment,  when  she  passed 
Diavolo  without  his  perceiving  her.  Never  before  had 
she  seen  such  an  expression  on  those  beloved  features. 
Malice  and  triumph  blazed  in  the  eye,  and  the  lour  of 
hatred  gathered  on  the  brow.  She  hastened  to  her 
chamber,  but  not  to  sleep.     What  could  that  expres- 


92  THE  LAUREL  WREATH. 

sion  mean  ?  The  moon  of  her  existence  was  eclipsed. 
Would  it  ever  be  bright  again  ?  Whichever  way  she 
turned,  that  scowl  of  hatred,  those  parted  lips  and 
closed  teeth  of  settled  vindictiveness,  appeared  before 
her. 

She  had  hardly  sat  an  hour,  before  a  scream  of  ag- 
ony and  of  horror,  from  her  father's  apartment,  roused 
her  from  her  reverie.  Darting  from  her  room  into  the 
suite  of  apartments  occupied  by  the  Duke,  the  first 
object  she  saw,  was  Diavolo  dragging  her  father, 
wounded  and  disabled,  from  his  room  into  the  ante- 
chamber, and  brandishing  a  dagger  in  his  uplifted 
hand. 

"Oh,  spare  him,  Diavolo  !  Spare  him!  There  is 
not  a  boon  you  can  ask,  but  what  I  will  grant,  if  you 
will  not  murder  him.  He  is  your  bencfi^y^-tor,  Diavolc 
— he  loves  you — he  is  the  father  of  his  people.  Spare 
him,  for  my  sake,"  said  she,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  still 
seeing  the  unsoflened  features  of  the  murderer.  "  It 
is  Lauretta  Colonna  who  kneels.  Hear  me,  Diavolo ; 
and  turn  not  from  me.  But  a  hw  hours  ago,  and  it 
was  to  you  I  looked  as  the  sun  of  my  existence :  but 
a  few  hours  ago,  and  I  was  but  too  happy  to  gaze  on 
your  face  and  think  you  almost  an  angel.  Every 
pulsation  of  my  virgin  heart  was  yours ;  and  now  I 
kneel  to  you  not  to  murder  my  father  !  Spare  him, 
Diavolo  !     Spare  him  !" 

Diavolo's  countenance  was  unmoved,  a  sneer  curled 
his  lip — but  no  fury  agitated  his  face,  or  convulsed 
his  nmseles.  Wiiat  he  did  seemed  to  be  tiie  settled 
I)urj)ose  of  the  hatred  that  now  glared  in  his  denioui- 
aoal  oyc. 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  93 

"  Lauretta,"  said  he,  with  a  cold,  calm  voice,  "look 
in  ;f onder  chamber,  and  see  if  you  can  find  any  mon- 
uments of  my  sparing  mercy." 

Slie  flew  to  the  room,  and  there  lay  the  bodies  of 
her  two  little  brothers  weltering  in  each  other's  gore, 
and  her  mother  gasping  her  last  on  the  hearth  stone. 

"  Monster,  fiend,  demon,"  exclaimed  the  frantic 
girl,  «  what,  all  ?"  She  said  no  more,  for  she  heard  the 
stab,  the  death-groan  and  struggle,  the  rush  of  the 
heart's  blood  as  it  gushed  from  the  wound,  and  the 
fiendish  laugh  that  echoed  through  the  palace  in  awful 
derision.  A  thousand  steps  were  now  heard  crowding 
to  the  gates,  and  through  the  halls,  and  shouts  of 
"Ursini"  —  "long  live  Prospero  Ursini" — echoed 
through  the  streets.  As  they  burst  into  the  room, 
Diavolo  seized  Lauretta  by  the  waist — "  And  so  you 
would  love  me,  all  amiable  as  I  am ;  here,"  said  he, 
flinging  her  among  the  group  of  soldiers  who  ad- 
vanced, "here  is  the  first  object  for  your  rapacity." — 
The  soldiers  shouted  as  they  received  her  on  their 
shields,  but  the  soul  of  the  afflicted  maiden  had  fled 
before  she  reached  them. 

The  surprise  was  efiectual,and  the  next  morning 
saw  Prospero  Ursini  the  Duke  of  Florence.  But 
dreadful  was  the  sight  of  the  devoted  city  that  morn- 
ing.  The  friends  of  Colonna  had  fought  bravely, 
but  overpowered  by  numbers  and  surprise,  and  dis- 
pirited  by  the  loss  of  their  leader,  they  soon  covered 
their  streets  with  their  bodies,  and  as  the  morning  light 
beamed  on  Florence,  it  beamed  o'er  slaughtered  piles 
and  burning  houses,  and  orphans  and  widows  thrown 
out  on  the  world  without  protection  or  support.     The 


94  THE   LAUKEL  WREATH. 

Ursini  faction  liad  obtained  their  wishes.  Prospero 
Ursini  was  installed  into  the  office  of  Duke,  by  the 
self-constituted  Senate  of  the  conspirators,  and  each 
one  of  the  faction  had  liis  share  of  reward  and  emol- 
ument. Diavolo,  who  during  the  few  days  in  which 
the  affairs  of  government  were  settling  had  been  ab- 
sent, again  made  his  appearance  in  the  assembled 
Senate  of  the  conspirators,  and  with  a  stern  and  con- 
temptuous expression  of  countenance,  demanded  of 
them  his  part  of  the  rewards  and  emoluments. 

"I  told  you,"  said  he,  "  that  I  did  not  ask  office,  or 
honor,  or  riches.  What  I  do  ask  of  you,  is  only  a 
lock  of  hair  from  each,  as  another  pledge  of  what  you 
swore  to  me  in  the  sepulchral  vault." 

The  Senate  would  have  smiled  at  the  apparent 
folly  of  the  request,  but  they  were  awed  into  silence 
by  the  stern  look  of  one  who  had  acquired  such  an 
ascendancy  over  them,  and  gave  him  the  lock  without 
comment. 

For  a  few  days  the  people  silently  acquiesced  in 
the  change  of  government,  but  the  tyranny  and  op- 
pression of  Ursini,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  mild 
administration  of  Colonna  were  beginning  to  rouse 
them  to  action,  and  nothing  but  the  terror  of  the 
French  soldiery  in  the  city  kept  them  under.  In  a 
short  time,  however,  rumors  reached  the  city  that  the 
Imperialists  were  in  full  march  towai'd  Florence,  to 
put  down  a  faction  always  so  much  opposed  to  their 
interests.  The  conspirators  were  awakened  from  the 
short  dream  of  power,  to  perceive  that  neither  at 
home  nor  abroad  could  they  look  for  support.  The 
Imi)erialists  advanced — a  battle  was  fought  near  the 


THE    CONSPIRATORS.  'J5 

city,  and  the  conspirators  forced  into  it  with  the  pros- 
pect of  an  immediate  and  successful  seige.  The  Sen- 
ate was  assembled,  and  the  gloom  and  distrust  hang- 
ing on  each  face,  showed  their  dread  of  the  future. 
In  the  midst  of  their  deliberations,  Diavolo  suddenly 
made  his  appearance.  His  form  was  no  longer  that 
of  man,  nor  his  face  human.  The  demon  now  shone 
conspicuous  in  him,  and  though  the  form  that  he  still 
assumed  was  manlike,  it  towered  so  much  above  tlie 
usual  proportions  and  the  face  glared  with  such  in- 
tensity of  malice  as  to  mark  the  fiend.  With  hor- 
ror the  conspirators  shrunk  from  their  seats,  as  the  fell 
eye  of  vindictiveness  burnt  on  each,  and  teiTor  and 
despair,  the  most  dreadful  and  the  most  intense,  seized 
every  bosom. 

"  I  am  come,"  said  he,  in  the  tones  of  Hell,  "  I  am 
come  now  to  demand  your  pledges ;  you  have  lived 
out  your  day  of  wickedness,  and  I  have  satiated  my 
desire  of  hatred  and  malice  towards  you,  and  now 
you  receive  your  punishment.  Mine  you  swore  to  be 
forever.  In  the  flames  of  Hell,  mine  you  shall  be. 
Did  you  think  I  meant  to  serve  you  ?  I  hate  your 
accursed  race  too  much,  and  all  that  vengeance  can 
bestow  upon  me  is  mine.  By  connecting  your  fate 
with  mine,  you  have  enabled  me  to  perform  the  mis- 
chief I  have,  and  blood  and  carnage  and  misery 
have  been  the  consequences.  Now  to  your  punish- 
ment." 

On  a  censer  of  coals  in  the  apartment  he  flung  the 
locks  of  hair  they  had  given,  and  the  attendants  heard 
without,  a  loud,  long  shriek  of  agony  and  despair, 
mingled  with  a  shout  of  mockery,  and  triumph,  and 


96  THE  LAUEEL  WREATH. 

derision,  that  rang  in  echo  through  the  Senate  house  , 
when  they  rushed  to  the  chamber,  the  blackened  and 
disfigured  corpses  of  the  conspirators  were  all 
tliey  saw. 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP.  97 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP. 


BY    II.   F.   GOULD. 


A  GALLANT  ship  !  and  trim  and  tight ; 

Across  the  deep  she  speeds  away, 
While  mantled  with  the  golden  light 

The  sun  throws  back,  at  close  of  day. 
And  who,  that  sees  that  stately  ship 
Her  haughty  stern  in  ocean  dip 
Has  ever  seen  a  prouder  one 
Illumined  by  a  setting  sun  ? 

The  breath  of  summer,  sweet  and  soft. 
Her  canvas  swells,  while,  wide  and  fair. 

And  floating  from  her  mast  aloft, 
Her  flag  plays  off  on  gentle  air. 

And,  as  her  steady  prow  divides 

The  waters  to  her  even  sides, 

She  passes,  like  a  bird,  between 

The  peaceful  deep  and  sky  serene. 

And  now,  grave  Twilight's  slender  veil 
The  moon  with  shafts  of  silver  rends ; 

And,  down  on  billow,  deck  and  sail. 
Her  placid  luster  gently  sends. 

The  stars,  as  if  the  arch  of  blue 

Were  pierced  to  let  the  glory  through, 
G  E 


98  THE   LAUREL   WREATH. 

From  their  bright  world  look  out,  and  win 
The  soul  of  man  to  enter  in. 

And  many  a  heart  that 's  warm  ana  true, 

That  noble  ship  bears  on  with  pride  ; 
"While,  'mid  the  many  forms,  are  iwo 

Of  passing  beauty,  side  by  side. 
A  fair,  young  mother,  standing  by 
Her  bosom's  lord,  has  fixed  her  eye 
AV^ith  his,  upon  the  blessed  star 
That  points  them  to  their  home  afar. 

Their  thoughts  fly  forth  to  those  who,  there, 

Are  waiting  now,  with  joy  to  hail 
The  moment  that  shall  grant  their  prayer, 

And  heave  in  sight  the  coming  sail. 
For  many  a  time  the  changeful  queen 
Of  night  has  vanished  and  been  seen, 
Since,  o'er  a  foreign  shore  to  roam, 
They  passed  from  that  dear,  native  home. 

The  babe,  that,  on  its  father's  breast, 

Has  let  its  little  eyelids  close, 
The  mother  boars  below  to  rest. 

And  sinks  with  it  in  sweet  repose. 
The  while,  a  sailor  climbs  the  shroud. 
And  in  the  distance  spies  a  cloud  ! 
Low,  like  a  swelling  seed,  it  lies. 
From  which  the  towerinjT  storm  shall  rise. 


o 


The  powers  of  air  arc  now  about 
To  muster  from  their  hidden  caves. 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP.  99 

The  winds  unchained,  come  rushing  out, 

And  into  mountains  heap  the  waves. 
Upon  the  sky  the  darkness  spreads  ! 
The  tempest  on  the  ocean  treads ; 
And  yawning  caverns  are  its  track 
Amid  the  waters  wild  and  black. 

Its  voice — but  who  shall  give  the  sounds 
Of  that  dread  voice  ?— The  ship  is  dashed 

In  roaring  depths,  and  now  she  bounds 
On  high,  by  foaming  surges  lashed. 

And  how  is  she  the  storm  to  bide  ? 

Its  sweeping  wing  is  strong  and  wide ; 

The  hand  of  man  has  lost  control 

O'er  her ! — ^his  work  is  for  the  soul. 

She 's  in  a  scene  of  Nature's  war — 

The  winds  and  waters  are  at  strife ; 
And  both,  with  her,  contending  for 
The  brittle  thread  of  human  life 
That  she  contains ;  while  sail  and  shroud 
Have  yielded  ;  and  her  head  has  bowed! 
Then  who  that  slender  thread  shall  keep, 
But  He  whose  finger  heaves  the  deep  ? 

A  moment — and  the  angry  blast 
Has  done  its  work,  and  hurried  on  ! 

With  broken  cables,  shivered  mast ; 
With  riven  sides,  and  anchor  gone, 

Behold  the  ship  in  ruin  lie, 

While  from  the  waves  a  piercing  erv 


100  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

Surmounts  the  tumult  high  and  wild, 

And  sounds  to  heaven,  '  My  child  !  my  child  !' 

The  mother,  in  the  whelming  surge, 

Lifts  up  her  infant  o'er  the  sea, 
While  lying  on  the  awful  verge 

Where  time  unveils  eternity — 
And  calls  to  Mercy,  from  the  skies. 
To  come  and  rescue,  while  she  dies. 
The  gift  that,  with  her  fleeting  breath, 
She  offers  from  the  gates  of  death  ! 

It  is  a  call  for  heaven  to  hear. 

Maternal  fondness  sends  above 
A  voice  that  in  her  Father's  ear 

Shall  enter  quick — for  God  is  love. 
In  such  a  moment,  hands  like  these, 
Their  Maker  with  their  offering  sees  ; 
And,  for  the  faith  of  such  a  breast. 
He  will  the  blow  of  death  arrest ! 

The  moon  looks  pale  from  out  the  cloud, 

While  Mercy's  angel  takes  the  form 
Of  him,  who,  mounted  on  the  shroud. 
Was  first  to  see  the  coming  storm! 
The  sailor  has  a  ready  arm 
To  bear  relief,  and  cope  with  harm  ! 
Though  rough  his  hand,  and  nerved  with  steel, 
Ills  heart  is  warm  ami  quick  to  fee]. 

And  see  liiin,  as  he  braves  the  frown 
That  sky  and  sea  each  Dtlicr  give! 


CHANGES  ON  THE  DEEP.  101 

Behold  him,  where  he  plunges  down — 

That  child  and  mother  yet  may  live — 
To  pluck  them  from  a  closing  grave  ' 
'  They  're  saved !  they  're  saved !'  the  maddened 

wave 
Leaps,  foaming,  up,  to  find  its  prey 
Snatched  from  its  mouth  and  borne  away  ! 

'  They're  saved !  they're  saved !'  but  where  is  he, 
Who  lulled  his  fearless  babe  to  sleep  ? 

A  floating  plank  on  that  wild  sea, 
Has  now  his  vital  spark  to  keep  ! 

But,  by  the  wan,  affrighted  moon. 

Help  comes  to  him,  and  he  is  soon 

Upon  the  deck  with  living  men. 

To  clasp  that  blooming  boy  again  ! 

And  now  can  He,  who  only  knows 

Each  human  breast,  behold  alone 
That  pure  and  grateful  incense  goes 

From  that  sad  wreck  to  his  hie;h  throne. 
The  twain,  whose  hearts  are  truly  one. 
Will  early  teach  their  prattling  son 
Upon  his  little  heart  to  bear 
The  sailor  thus  to  God  in  prayer : 

O,  Thou,  who  in  thy  hand  dost  hold 

The  winds  and  waves  that  wake  or  sleep, 

Thy  tender  arms  of  mercy  fold 
Around  the  seamen  on  the  deep  ! 

And  when  their  voyage  of  life  is  o'er, 

May  they  be  welcomed  to  the  shore 


102  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

Whose  peaceful  streets  with  gold  are  paved, 
And   angels   sing,     *  They're   saved  !     they're 
saved  1^ 


THE    USURPER.  103 


THE   USURPER. 


BY  MRS.  J.  WEBB. 


"Cross  my  hand,  lady,"  said  a  tall,  wild-looking 
man,  as  he  gently  seized  the  bridle  of  a  spirited  horse, 
on  which  was  seated  a  beautiful  girl,  who  might  have 
seen  some  nineteen  summers ;  "  and  perhaps  the  gipsy 
may  tell  you  something  it  may  profit  you  to  know." 

The  lady  took  from  her  girdle  a  purse,  saying,  as  she 
offered  it,  "  There  is  money,  good  man  ;  but  I  have 
no  faith  in  your  art," — and  beckoning  a  servant  who 
rode  a  short  distance  behind  her,  prepared  to  proceed. 

The  gipsy  still  gently  held  the  bridle,  and  while  he 
proudly  put  aside  the  offered  purse,  said,  "Daughter 
of  another  land !  ere  that  bright  sun  shall  again  cross 
the  equator,  strange  things  will  befall  thee.  The  rich 
lands  of  Ashfield  will  no  longer  call  thee  heir.  An- 
other scene  awaits  thee." 

"  Oh  !  would,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  dropped  the 
reins,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  ;  "  would  to  God 
I  had  never  seen  them,  nor  even  left  dear,  sunny 
France."  Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  having  betrayed 
her  feelings,  she  added,  "  Allow  me  to  proceed,  good 
man.     Of  me  and  mine  you  can  know  nothing." 

"Of  you  and  yours,  lady,"  said  he,  as  his  lip  curl- 
ed, and  his  keen  eye  was  bent  upon  hers,  "  I  know 
even  more  than  you  do.     Methinks  I  see  now  the  cha- 


104  THK    LAUREL    WEEAIH. 

-'teau  of  Aubry  ;  the  green  lawn,  where  you  played  in 
childhood  j  the  fountain,  near  which  you  sat  in  riper 
^ears  ;  the  dark-eyed  stranger,  who  periled  his  life  to 
save  yours  ;  and  the  alcove,  where  you  first  listened 
to  that  stranger's  tale  of  love." 

"  Oh,  how,  how  know  you  this  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
while  the  blood  crimsoned  her  cheek  and  brow,  and, 
receding,  left  them  pale  as  marble. 

A  faint  smile  played  for  an  instant  round  the  mouth 
of  the  gipsy,  as  he  replied,  "  By  the  same  power  that 
I  know  you  nursed  him  till  he  recovered  from  his  in- 
juries, and  wept  when  your  stern  uncle,  on  learning 
that  he  was  poor,  bade  him  quit  the  chateau.  And 
now,  lady,"  he  said,  "  enough  of  the  past.  Should 
you  wish  hereafter  to  hear  of  the  future,  yonder  is 
our  encampment,"  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  valley 
at  a  short  distance,  where  stood  two  or  three  tents, 
such  as  are  used  by  those  wandering  tribes.  "Come 
there,  and  ask  for  Philip." 

So  saying,  he  relinquished  the  reins.  The  animal, 
finding  itself  at  liberty,  sprung  forward;  and  before 
Adele  de  Lacy  recovered  from  her  astonishment,  she 
was  half-way  up  the  well-shaded  avenue  that  led 
to  Ashfield  Hall. 

Adele  de  Lacy  was  an  orphan.  Misfortune  had 
early  sought  her  acquaintance.  In  her  fifteenth  year 
she  was  deprived  of  lier  lather,  whose  memory  a  sud- 
den  and  awful  death  rendered  doubly  dear.  The 
shock  proved  too  much  for  the  delicate  frame  of  her 
mother,  wiio  lingered  in  sickness  a  few  months,  and 
was  then  laid  at  rest  with  the  partner  of  her  joys  ana 
Borrows.     Poor  Adele  was  thus  left  alone  to  bullet  with 


THE    USURPER.  105 

the  storms  of  life,  and  learn,  by  sad  experience,  thai 
wealth  alone  cannot  confer  happiness  ;  that  Providence 
allots  to  the  rich  their  heart-heavings  and  cares,  as 
well  as  to  the  poor  ;  and  that  the  sun  of  joy,  though  it 
beam  brightly  on  us  in  life's  morning,  maj',  ere  noon- 
tide, be  overcast. 

The  management  of  Adele's  affairs  devolved  upon 
her  maternal  uncle,  Sir  Ralph  Wilmont,  who  proposed, 
as  she  was  his  heir,  that  she  should  leave  the  scene  of 
her  sorrows,  journey  with  him  to  merry  England,  and 
take  up  her  abode  at  Ashfield  Hall. 

It  was  a  few  days  previous  to  their  intended  depart- 
ure from  lier  childhood's  home,  that  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  gave  a  new  turn  to  Adele's  thoughts, 
a  new  impulse  to  her  feelings.  Returning  one  day 
from  her  usual  ride,  her  horse  took  fright  at  the  report 
of  a  gun.  Her  good  horsemanship  availed  nothing. 
On  flew  the  animal  in  wild  career ;  and  Adele  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  dashed  to  pieces,  had  not  a 
gentleman  seized  the  reins,  and,  at  the  peril  of  his 
life,  stopped  the  horse ;  but  not  before  he  had  been 
dragged  a  considerable  distance,  when  other  aid  came, 
and  Adele,  more  dead  than  alive,  alighted.  The 
stranger  lay  senseless  on  the  ground,  still  holding,  as 
with  a  dying  grasp,  the  reins  in  his  hand.  He  was 
borne  to  the  chateau.  Sir  Ralph  was  all  gratitude  to 
him,  who,  under  heaven,  had  been  the  means  of  pre- 
serving his  beloved  niece,  for  whom  he  felt  paternal 
fondness. 

It  was  many  weeks  before  the  stranger  was  able  to 

leave  his  room.     Adele   nursed  him   with  a  sister's 

care ;  nor  dreamed,  as  she  held  the  cup  to  his  parch- 

E2 


106  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

ed  lips  with  the  hand  of  friendship,  that  love  was  steaU 
ing  in  to  mar  her  peace.  Yet  so  it  was.  She  loved 
the  nameless  stranger.  But  Sir  Ralph,  unmindful  of 
the  obligation  he  was  under  to  the  deliverer  of  Adele, 
drove  him  like  a  menial  from  the  chateau,  and  in  a 
few  weeks  embarked  for  England. 

I  need  not  say  Adele  was  an  unwilling  sojourner  at 
Ashficld  Hall.  The  beauty  of  the  place  had  for  her 
no  charms.  Her  heart  pined  for  the  dear  scenes  she 
had  left ;  and  though  the  beacon-light  of  hope  might 
sometimes  glimmer  from  afar,  the  dark  cloud  of  doubt 
would  as  often  dim  its  ray,  and  leave  her  to  darkness 
and  despair. 

Sir  Ralph  had  been  in  possession  of  Ashfield  some 
seventeen  years.  Sir  Matthew  Errington,  the  former 
owner,  had  been  the  intimate  friend  of  Sir  Rali)h's 
father.  He  liad  only  one  son,  whom  he  had  disowned 
for  marrying  against  his  will,  and  had  left,  with  his 
wife  and  infant  son,  to  misery  and  want.  Sir  Mat- 
thew died,  leaving  Ashfield  to  Sir  Ralph  and  his  heirs 
forever. 

Sir  Ralph  was  not  well  liked  by  his  tenantry  :  more 
ilolled  the  liat  to  him  in  fear  than  in  reverence.  Adele 
was  the  only  being  on  earth  who  cared  if  he  died  or 
lived ;  and  though  he  had  withered  her  heart's  first 
hope,  he  was  the  only  being  on  earth  to  whom  she  could 
cling.  It  was  with  sincere  grief,  then,  that  she  saw  his 
health  daily  decline.  He  had  l*>en  for  some  time  con- 
fined to  his  room.  His  disease  baflled  the  skill  of  his 
physician,  and  left  poor  Adele  the  witliering  certainty 
that  she  would  at  no  distant  date  be  left  alone. 

Deej)  was  her  anguish  w  hen,  on  reaching  the  Hall, 


THE    USURPER.  lOT 

she  learned  that  Sir  Ralph  was  much  worse.  Hei 
solicitude  for  her  uncle,  whom  she  sincerely  loved, 
prevented  her  mind  from  dwelling  on  her  strange  ad- 
venture with  the  gipsy.  As  she  sat  sobbing  by  his 
side,  she  lived  again,  in  memory,  over  the  dark  hour 
of  sorrow  when  her  parents  died.  About  day-dawn 
he  became  delirious ;  raved  incoherently  of  France, 
of  papers  left  at  the  chateau  which  ought  to  have  been 
destroyed  ! — then  of  his  niece  ;  and  prayed  he  might 
die  before  she  should  know  his  guilt.  Thus  he  con- 
tinued for  three  days.  The  third  night  he  fell  into  a 
quiet  slumber ;  and  Adele,  worn  out  with  watching, 
sunk  to  sleep  in  her  chair. 

She  dreamt  of  France,  dear  France.  Again  the 
joys  of  her  infant  years  were  hers  :  she  saw  the  eyes 
beam  on  her  that  she  could  never  but  in  dreams  see 
more:  again  she  heard  a  loved  voice  whisper  in  her 
ear,   and  she   was  blessed  :  then  came   the  parting 

scene the  agony  of  feeling  roused  her  from  her 

slumber,  and,  casting  her  eyes  toward  her  uncle,  she 
saw  bending  over  him  the  tall  form  of  the  gipsy.  She 
started  to  her  feet  with  the  intention  of  callincr  for 
help  ;  but  he,  as  if  aware  of  her  intent,  placed  his  fin- 
ger on  his  lip  in  token  of  silence,  and  turning  to  a  win- 
dow which  opened  on  a  balcony,  and  by  which  he  had 
evidently  entered,  beckoned  her  to  follow.  Adele 
hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  recollecting  he  had  spo- 
ken of  one  she  loved,  she  advanced  to  the  spot  where 
he  stood,  with  a  firm  step.  He  seemed  pleased  with 
her  confidence  ;  for  he  half  extended  his  hand,  then 
suddenly  withdrawing  it,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  daring, 
he  said,  in  whispered  tones. 


108  THE    LAUREL   WEEATH. 

"  Lady,  from  me  you  have  nought  to  fear.  I  would 
defend  you  from  evil  at  the  peril  of  my  life  ;  why,  you 
will  know  hereafter.  I  love  to  linger  around  this 
spot.  You  may  often  meet  me  within  its  precincts ; 
but,  at  whatever  hour,  in  whatever  place,  do  not  fear 
me.  Did  you  know  how  much  for  your  sake  I  for- 
bear, you  would  have  no  fear  of  Pliilip." 

Waving  his  hand  in  token  of  adieu,  he  bounded 
over  the  balcony,  a  feat  a  much  younger  man  might 
have  been  proud  to  achieve,  and  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  lips  to  enjoin  silence,  he  turned  away. 

The  moon  shone  full  on  his  fine,  tall  form,  as  he 
crossed  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the  vale  he  had 
before  pointed  out  to  Adele  ;  while  she,  overwhelmed 
with  astonishment,  again  entered  the  chamber  to  think 
over  the  strange  scene,  which  appeared  to  her  more 
like  romance  than  reality.  She  approached  her  un- 
cle — he  still  slept — and  looking  round  the  room,  saw 
everything  in  the  same  order  as  when  she  closed  her 
eyes  in  sleep.  There  stood  his  dressing-case,  richly 
inlaid  with  gold,  with  all  the  various  expensive  articles 
of  luxury  known  but  to  the  toilet  of  the  wealthy. 

"He  cannot  come  to  plunder,"  whispered  Adele; 
"  and  yet  I  have  often  heard  that  those  wandering 
people  inherit  such  propensities."  Then,  ashamed 
of  her  suspicions,  as  she  remembered  his  noble  bear 
ing,  "And  yet,"  she  muttered,  "  what  else  could  have 
brought  him  here  ?" 

Day  dawned,  and  still  Sir  Rali)h  slept.  About  noon 
lie  awoke  to  conscitjusness  ;  and  Adele  wejn  with  un- 
feigned delight  when  she  liciinl  him  pronounce  lier 
name.     The  physician  told  her  ho  had  now  hopes  of 


THE    USURPER.  109 

his  recovery,  if  kept  perfectly  still.  As  Sii  Ralph 
recovered,  Adele  watched  him  with  unwearied  patience. 
He  was  no  longer  as  he  had  been :  he  was  irritable ; 
seemed  afraid  to  be  left  alone :  his  eye  constantly 
wandered  to  the  portrait  of  Sir  Matthew,  which  hung 
in  the  room. 

At  his  request,  Adele  occupied  a  small  dressing, 
room  adjoining  his  apartment.  About  an  hour  after 
midnight,  she  was  awoke  by  deep  groans  issuing  from 
the  apartment  of  her  uncle ;  and  throwing  on  her 
dressing-gown,  entered  to  learn  the  cause.  The  taper 
was  still  burning  on  a  table  in  the  center  of  the  room  ; 
a  few  embers  were  still  glowing  on  the  hearth ;  all 
seemed  as  usual.  But  the  inmate  of  that  large  room, 
he  sat  upright  in  the  bed,  his  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets ;  large  drops  of  perspiration  standing  on  his 
forehead ;  while  his  face  wore  the  hue  of  death,  and 
his  hand,  like  that  of  a  statue,  pointed  to  the  picture 
of  Sir  Matthew. 

Adele's  eye  sought  the  spot,  but  her  surprise  and 
terror  were  scarcely  less  than  Sir  Ralph's,  on  behold- 
ing— not  the  portrait  of  Sir  Matthew — but  that  of  Phil- 
ip, the  gipsy,  in  its  place.  Strong  indeed  was  the  re- 
semblance between  the  dead  and  the  living,  in  all  but 
dress.  Sir  Ralph  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  sunk  faint- 
ing on  his  pillow.  Adele  flew  to  his  assistance  ;  and 
when,  after  a  brief  interval,  his  eye  again  sought  the 
panel,  all  was  as  before  the  change  :  there  was  the 
portrait  of  Sir  Matthew,  in  his  bag-wig,  his  suit  of 
brown  velvet,  with  the  rich  Brussels  cravat  falling 
over  his  embroidered  waistcoat.  She  stepped  to  the 
panel,  examined  it,  and  found  it  firm  in  its  place.    She 


110  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

now  felt  inclined  to  believe  the  past  scene  was  but  the 
effect  of  iancy,  till  drawn  by  the  feeble  voice  of  her 
uncle  to  his  side. 

*'  They  haunt  me  in  my  day-dreams,  and  mar  my 
nights'  repose.  Listen  to  me,  Adele.  My  spirit  can 
no  longer  struggle  with  the  secret  of  my  guilt.  Do 
not  scorn  my  memory.  Ah  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  let  no 
one  imagine  that  he  can  commit  crime  and  lull  his 
conscience  to  eternal  rest.  The  simple  floweret  that, 
as  I  have  crossed  the  lawn,  was  trod  beneath  my  feet, 
awoke  the  '  small  still  voice'  as  it  reared  again  its  head 
to  tell  me  of  my  crimes.  Come  near  to  me,  Adele. 
Promise  not  to  speak  harshly  of  me  ;  and  oh  !  if  pos- 
sible, do  not  think  hardly  of  me." 

"Never,  dearnincle,"  said  the  distressed  girl,  "will 
I  speak  ill  of  you.  You  are  the  brother  of  my  dear 
parent  now  in  Fleaven.  She  may  be  watching  over 
us  ;  and  never  shall  her  pure  spirit  know — if  spirits 
are  indeed  permitted  to  know  aught  of  tliose  they  love 
in  this  world  of  ours — that  her  child  spoke  an  evil 
word,  or  harbored  an  evil  thought,  of  one  who  was  so 
dear  to  her.  To  me  you  have  almost  invariably  been 
kind." 

"  You  say  *  almost,'  Adele.  I  remember  well  why 
you  use  the  word.  Poor  girl !  I  crushed  the  first  bud 
of  allection  that  grew  in  your  young  heart ;  and  you 
will  suon  know  wJiy.  ^li  was  not  that  the  youtli  was 
poor ;  oh,  no — not  that ;  but  that  his  look  withered 
me,  he  so  strongly  resembled  one  who  saved  mo  from 
destruction  in  my  youth,  cherished  me  in  after  years, 
and  thougiit  me  all  he  wished  me.  But  I  had  learned 
the  wiles  of  the  serpent.     I  wound  myself  into  his  con- 


THE    USURPER.  Ill 

fidence,  but  to  deceive  him.  He  died  without  knowing 
it,  and  blessed  me  with  his  last  breath  as  his  true 
friend.  Since  that  time,  I  have  nightly  pressed  a  pil- 
low of  thorns ;  and  all  for  love  of  gold,  gold  that  1 
squandered  in  my  youth  like  chaff  thrown  before  the 
harvest  wind.  My  early  extravagance  ruined  my 
father,  and  greatly  impaired  the  fortune  of  your  moth- 
er ;  but  your  noble  father  heeded  not  that.  The 
world  pointed  to  me  as  a  prodigal :  all  shunned  me 
but  one  friend  and  your  dear  mother.  I  was  goaded, 
mortified.  A  horror  of  being  poor — of  being  the  scorn 
of  my  fellow  men,  many  of  whom  had  helped  me  to 
squander — to  be  the  object  of  pity  to  some,  of  contempt 
to  others — was  more  than  my  proud  spirit  and  weak 
principles  could  endure.  I  determined  at  all  risks  to 
have  an  inheritance.  I  knew  but  one  way  to  gain  it. 
I,  by  artful  conduct,  obtained  the  confidence  of  my 
friend,. the  only  friend  who  smiled  on  me  in  adversity.  . 
I  betrayed  that  confidence  !  One,  who  aided  me  in 
the  dark  deed,  for  years  hung  on  me  like  an  incubus. 
I  bribed  him  to  go  abroad ;  and  thought,  then,  that 
peace  might  again  be  mine.  Alas,  vain  hope  ! — 
Peace  spreads  not  her  downy  pinions  o'er  the  wicked. 
To  be  brief,  the  lands  of  Ashfield  I  gained  by  fraud  !" 

"Oh,  dear  uncle,"  cried  Adele,  "  do  not  talk  of  dy- 
ing. I  am  in  a  strange  country.  The  seclusion  in 
which  we  have  lived  has  given  me  few  opportunities 
of  making  friends.  If  you  die,  I  shall  be  left  alone  ; 
and  oh  !  there  is  something  so  fearful  in  being  alone 
in  the  world,  with  no  friend  to  soothe  or  counsel  me, 
that  my  heart  sinks  at  the  thought." 

"  Do  not  fear,  Adele,"  replied  the  sick  man,  "  you 


112  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

can  look  m  here  I  dare  not  east  my  eyes.  Your  heart 
is  pure ;  and  the  sacred  halo  of  virtuous  principles 
encircles  you.  But  I  —  I  have  a  tale  to  tell  whicn 
will  make  you  shrink  from  me  in  horror ;  and  it  must 
be  told.  Some  power  I  never  felt  before  impels  me  to 
disclose  past  deeds,  even  though  it  stamp  my  memory 
with  infamy. 

"  Adele,  the  former  owner  of  this  estate,  the  origin- 
al of  that  picture,  had  but  one  son,  one  on  whom  his 
hopes  rested.  He  had  in  his  own  mind  formed  for  his 
son  an  alliance  with  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend. 
The  youth  had  been  abroad  three  years ;  and  Sir 
Matthew  joyed  in  the  prospect  of  his  return,  that  he 
might  see  him  married  to  the  lady  he  had  chosen  for 
him.  He  came:  but  on  his  father's  making  known 
to  him  his  intention,  the  son  confessed  that  lie  was  al- 
ready a  husband  and  a  father  ;  that  he  had  married, 
previous  to  his  leaving  England,  a  poor  but  virtuous 
girl,  one  whose  young  heart  he  had  won  while  at  col- 
lege. The  father  was  frantic  with  rage  ;  for  his  mind 
had  long  been  bent  on  calling  one  daughter  who  well 
would  have  deserved  the  title.  That  lady,  Adele,  was 
your  mother :  hence  his  kindness  to  me.  He  bade  his 
son  forever  quit  his  sight.  In  vain  did  the  youth  plead, 
ill  vain  entreat,  that  Sir  Matthew  would  but  see  his 
grandchild.  He  was  inexorable,  and  drove  his  son  a 
beggar  forever  from  his  sight. 

"Six  years  passed  on  :  I  basked  in  the  sunshine  of 
pleasure.  The  world  of  fashion  owned  me  its  leader; 
the  world  of  vice,  its  votary.  Returning  one  night 
from  Almack's  with  your  mother,  as  we  stepped  into 
the  carriage,  a  iiiaii,  wrai)ped  in  a  tattered  cloak,  his 


THE    USURPER.  113 

hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  extended  his  hand,  saying, — 

"  'Charity,  for  the  sake  of  Heaven.' 

"  To  your  mother  it  was  an  irresistible  appeal.  I 
would  have  knocked  him  down,  but  she  checked  me, 
and  handing  him  her  purse,  she  said, 

"  '  I  wish  it  were  more.  When  man  asks  charity 
of  woman,  his  need  must  be  great.' 

"'It  is  great,'  he  replied;  'you  can  never  know 
how  great.  May  the  Almighty  bless  you,  forever 
bless  you.  You  have  saved  from  death,  the  most 
dreadful  death,  that  of  hunger,  those  who  are  dearer 
to  me  than  life.' 

"  'Where  can  I  find  you  V  she  asked,  with  falter- 
ing voice. 

"  The  man  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said,  '  Ten  — 
Street,  Soho.' 

"  '  That  carriage  blocks  the  way  !' — a  cry  before 
unheeded — together  with  the  restiveness  of  the  horses, 
and  clamor  which  usually  attends  a  return  from  a  pub- 
lic place,  forbade  more  :  the  door  was  closed,  and  soon 
we  reached  Berkley  Square,  leaving  the  noise  of  the 
busy  throng  far  behind.  During  our  ride  home  your 
mother  uttered  not  a  word.  As  we  entered  the  hall 
she  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  : 

"  '  Ralph,'  said  she,  '  if  you  have  no  engagement  for 
two  o'clock,  reserve  an  hour  for  me.  You  must  go 
with  me  to  Soho.     I  must  see  more  of  that  poor  man.' 

"  'And  do  you  really  expect  to  find  him,  you  sim- 
ple girl  V  I  asked.  '  Why,  it  is  the  cant  of  the  whole 
begging  tribe — a  hacknied  tale.' 

"  'No  !  no  !  Ralph,'  she  replied  ;  'there  was  truth 

In  the  accents  of  that  man,  or  I  will  forfeit  my  life.' 
H  ^ 


114  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

"  '  Then  make  your  will,  Mary,'  I  said,  while  1 
laughed  aloud,  '  for  you  are  certainly  dead,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes.' 

"  '  Will  you  devote  an  hour  to  me,  brother,  as  I  de- 
sire V 

"  '  Undoubtedly,'  I  replied,  '  if  but  to  show  you  the 
world  is  not  what  it  seems.' 

"  I  kept  my  word  ;  and  before  three  we  arrived  at 

Street.     There  was  the  house — at  least,  such 

a  number.  But  now  another  difficulty  occurred  :  for 
whom  were  we  to  ask  ?  A  number  of  dirty  children 
were  playing  round  the  door,  from  whom  we  gathered 
that  a  great  number  of  families  lived  there.  On  our 
describing  a  tall  man  who  wore  a  cloak — 

"  '  Oh,'  said  one,  *  it  is  the  proud  man  in  the  four-pair 
l>ack  room.' 

"  With  this  information  we  endeavored  to  find  our 
way  up  the  dark,  dirty  stair-case,  you  mother  saying 
to  me  reproachfully, 

"'Did  I  not  tell  you,  Ralph  ?' 

"  As  the  rickety  boards  cracked  beneath  our  feet, 
we  arrived  at  the  door  the  children  had  described. — 
After  knocking  softly  and  receiving  no  answer,  we 
opened  the  door.  Never  shall  1  forget  the  sight  that 
met  our  view.  On  a  pallet  of  straw,  in  one  corner, 
lay  a  female.  She  slept,  but  it  seemed  the  sleep  of 
death,  so  wan  was  her  cheek.  Her  left  hand  lay  upon 
tiie  ragged  covering  of  the  miserable  bed ;  and  upon 
the  Wedding  fingf^r  was  a  small  gold  ring.  At  the 
fo(H  uf  llie  bed  reclined  a  beatiUful  boy  of  some  eight 
or  nine  years  of  age.  His  hair  fell  in  glossy  ringlets 
over  u  forehead  white  as  snow  :  he  was  pale,  not,  h 


THE    rSURPER.  115 

seemed,  from  sickness,  but  from  want.  In  his  right 
hand,  and  nigh  to  his  mouth,  he  held  a  crust  of  bread  ; 
and  seemed  to  sleep  in  very  thankfulness  that  he  had 
had  enough,  and  to  spare.  In  another  corner,  on  a 
broken  table,  was  a  coffin,  which,  on  approaching  it, 
we  found  contained  a  dead  infant.  While  we  gazed 
in  mute  astonishment  on  the  scene  of  misery,  we  heard 
footsteps  ascend  the  stairs,  and  presently  the  tall  stran- 
ger of  the  previous  evening  stood  before  us.  He  bow- 
ed a  recognition,  on  entering  the  miserable  abode,  as 
only  nature's  gentleman  can  bow ;  and  approaching 
the  window,  threw  aside  the  cloak  and  hat,  and  reveal- 
ed to  our  astonished  view  the  pale  features  of  Philip 
Errington  !  Your  mother  flew  to  him,  and  throwing 
her  arms  around  him — they  had  been  playmates  in 
childhood — wept  bitterly  as  she  exclaimed, 

" '  Oh,  Philip  !  Philip  !  how  could  you  suffer  thus 
without  applying  to  me  V 

"  I  did  apply  to  you,  Mary,'  he  replied  ;  '  you  are 
the  first  from  whom  I  have  received  charity.  I  could 
not  believe  that  any  in  this  great  city  could  die  of 
want  till  I  saw  my  infant  perish.  Oh,  Mary  !  Mary  !' 
he  said,  while  he  covered  his  face  and  wept  in  agony, 
*  you  know  not  how  dear  to  my  crushed  heart  the  two 
dear  beings  are  that  fate  has  left  me.  I  have  endured 
— but  human  tongue  can  never  tell  how  much  I  have 
endured !  And  my  gentle  Emma,  my  unrepining 
wife,  who,  'mid  the  misery  that  ever  attends  poverty, 
never  murmured,  but  still  smiled  on  me,  till  want, 
pinching  want,  came  ;  then,  when  our  babes  cried  for 
bread,  she  smiled  no  more.  But  you  have  saved  us, 
Mary.     Were  you  never  through  life  to  do  another 


116  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

good  act,  this  one  deed  will  win  you  Heaven's  bright 
heritage' 

"  1  know  not  why  it  was,  Adcle,  but  at  that  niomeni, 
when  the  heart  of  any  other  liuman  being  would  have 
been  awed  into  sympathy,  I,  fiend  as  I  was,  conceived 
a  boundless  hatred  for  the  bi*oken-heartcd  man  who 
stood  before  me.  Even  then,  the  thought  ran  like  a 
meteor  through  my  brain  that  I  might  be  his  father's 
heir.  Not  so  your  angel  mother ;  she  wept  in  agony, 
and  kneeling  by  the  pallet  of  straw,  pressed  her  lips 
to  the  pale  forehead  of  her  who  slept  there  unconscious 
of  all  around  her.  At  this  moment  the  boy  awoke  ; 
and  as  his  large  dark  eyes  met  mine,  I  felt  a  thrill  run 
through  my  frame  I  never  felt  before.  He  approach- 
ed his  father,  and  seeing  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks, 
took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  saying,  as  he  looked  in 
his  face, 

*'  *  Do  not  weep,  father  :  I  am  not  hungiy  now,  in- 
deed, indeed  I  am  not.     Oh,  do  not  cry,  and  PJjilip 

will  be  a  good  boy,  and See,  father,  mother  stirs; 

she  will  be  better  soon,  and  we  shall  be  so  happy.' 

"'Hush,  Philip!  hush  I  Your  mother  sleeps :  do 
not  disturb  her.' 

"  'But  she  will  wake  again,  fatlier ;  her  eyes  will 
open,  and  look  upon  her  poor  little  Philip,  as  she  used 
to  look  :  will  they  not,  dear  fatjier?' 

"  'Oh,  yes,  Philip  :  I  trust  in  God  she  will  be  spar- 
ed to  us.'  And  he  pressed  the  boy  to  liis  heart.  'Sit 
down  on  the  bed,  my  boy,  and  watch  your  mother's 
waking.' 

"  TIk!  child  sat  down,  and  leaning  his  lu-ad  on  his 
liand,  obeyed  tlio  request.     Wo  now  heard  a  heavy 


THE    USURPER.  117 

foot  upon  the  stairs,  and  a  man  entered  :  it  was  to  bear 
away  the  coffin.  The  heart-broken  father  gazed  a 
moment  on  the  face  of  his  departed  infant,  beckoned 
the  boy  to  his  side,  then  held  him  up  lo  take  a  last  look, 
ere  the  corpse  was  consigned  to  its  kindred  dust.  The 
lid  was  closed  ;  the  man  took  the  coffin ;  the  wretched 
father  threw  round  him  his  cloak,  pulled  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  and  wringing,  as  he  passed,  your  mother's 
hand,  without  speaking,  followed  the  bearer  of  the 
coffin. 

"  '  Ralph,'  said  your  mother,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  as  we  passed  through  Featherston's  Buildings, 
'to-day  I  saw  on  a  window  'furnished  apartments.' 
I  think  it  is  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  Patterson.  If  so,  she 
is  the  widow  of  an  officer,  and  a  person  of  kind  feel- 
ings. I  have  been  of  service  to  her  on  more  accounts 
than  one.  Go,  Ralph,  and  engage  her  lodgings; 
then  return  quickly  with  a  carriage  ;  for  never  will  I 
enter  my  own  home,  till  I  have  procured  for  those 
poor  sufferers  comfort.  I  will  remain  here  till  you 
return.' 

"  I  knew  too  well  your  mother's  disposition  to  at- 
tempt to  oppose  her,  I  obeyed  the  request,  to  my 
shame  let  me  add,  unwillingly.  I  for  some  time  had 
drawn  heavily  on  her  purse,  and  I  looked  upon  every 
guinea  she  spent  as  so  much  taken  from  my  pleasures. 
I  engaged  the  lodgings,  procured  a  carriage,  and,  on 
my  return,  found  your  mother  had  all  ready  for  the 
removal  of  the  unfortunates. 

"  We  now  only  waited  the  return  of  Philip.  The 
invalid  was  already  dressed,  or  rather  wrapped  in  the 
ragged  covering  of  the  bed,  over  which  your  mother 


118  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

had  fastened  her  own  cloak,  and,  as  I  entered,  like  an 
annuel  of  mercy  was  bending  over  her,  supporting  her 
head  on  her  bosom.  I  have  seen  your  mother,  Adele, 
in  tlie  full  blaze  of  beauty,  the  pride  of  the  crowded 
lialls  of  fashion  ;  I  saw  her  when  she  was  led  to  the 
altar,  the  blushing,  happy  bride  of  the  chosen  of  her 
heart :  but  never  did  I  see  her  look  so  lovely  as  when 
bendins:  over  that  sick  and  sorrowing  wife  and  mother. 
Yet,  though  I  loved  my  sister  for  the  feeling,  I  hated 
those  on  whom  she  conferred  the  favor.  To  be  brief, 
another  hour  saw  them  comfortably  settled  in  their 
new  abode,  and  your  mother's  eye  sparkled  with  joy 
as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  cheek  of  the  pale  boy, 
and  promised  to  see  them  on  the  morrow. 

"  'Now,  brother,'  she  said,  as  we  returned  home, 
'  I  will  not  sleep  till  I  see  Sir  Matthew  Errington.  He 
shall  forgive  poor  Philip,  and  receive  his  wife  and 
child.' 

"  I  prevailed  on  your  mother  to  leave  that  to  me. 
On  inquiring  at  the  residence  of  Sir  Matthew,  I  learn- 
ed he  had  left  town  for  Ashficld  Ilall.  Thither,  at  the 
recjuest  of  your  mother,  I  followed,  and  found  him 
sick  in  mind  and  body.  I  know  not  what  demon  pos- 
sessed me,  but  I  was  seized  with  an  insatiable  desire 
to  own  the  broad  lands  around  me.  There  were  but 
two  ways :  the  one  was  by  reviling  the  son  to  disgust 
the  father  still  further  with  him,  and  so  play  upon  the 
feelings  of  the  weak  old  man  as  to  induce  him  to  make 
inc  his  hoir  :  the  other  was  to  find  a  lawyer  who  would 
bocomo  my  tool,  and  tlius  gain  my  point.  I  chose  the 
latter,  and  soon  found  a  man  to  suit  my  purpose.  I 
returned  to  town,  informed  your  mother  that  my  ap- 


THE    USURPER.  119 

plication  had  been  fruitless,  but  that  I  would  return, 
and  not  leave  him  till  I  had  gained  my  point. 

"  On  my  return  to  Ashfield  Hall,  I  found  Sir  Mat- 
thew  much  worse :  he  was  now  unable  to  leave  his 
room.  His  heart  softened  toward  his  son  ;  he  expres- 
sed contrition  for  his  past  harshness,  and  earnestly  en- 
treated that  I  would  find  him.  I  feigned  to  enter  into 
his  feelings  ;  pretended  to  write  to  numerous  friends, 
requesting  them  to  make  diligent  inquiry;  and,  in 
fact,  induced  Sir  Matthew,  who  continued  daily  to 
grow  worse,  to  believe  that  I  was  the  true  friend  of 
that  son  I  was  endeavoring  to  ruin.  I  suggested  to  the 
kind  old  man  to  make  his  will,  and  so  prove  to  his  son 
that  he  had  his  entire  forgiveness.  He  approved  my 
plan.  The  man  of  law  was  sent  for  :  he  came  ;  and 
brought  with  him  a  will,  wherein  I  was  named  the  sole 
heir  to  these  estates,  in  consequence  of  Philip's  diso- 
bedience, binding  me,  by  the  said  will,  never  to  aid  him 
or  his  family.  He  then  sat  down,  with  unmoved  coun- 
tenance, wrote  from  Sir  Matthew's  dictation  a  second 
will,  bequeathing  all  his  possessions  to  his  son,  with 
his  blessing  and  forgiveness.  Need  I  add,  the  papers 
were  changed :  the  butler  was  called  to  witness  the 
signature :  the  lawyer  placed  the  false  will  beneath 
the  trembling  hand  of  the  dying  man,  unmoved  ; — but 
I,  I  lived,  in  that  moment,  an  age  of  horrors  ! 

"  The  will  was  signed ;  and  on  the  following  day 
Sir  Matthew  breathed  his  last :  his  spirit  took  flight  to 
that  bright  land  of  bliss  which  1  can  never  enter.  Oh, 
Adele,  I  feel  the  gates  of  mercy  are  closed  forever 
against  me.  I  dare  not  stand  in  the  presence  of  that 
God  whose  power  I  have  impiously  dared  to  question. 


120  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

"  My  ill-gained  wealth  has  been  to  me  a  curse.  I 
have  envied  the  humble  peasant  as  he  passed  me  to 
his  daily  toil,  and  shrunk  from  his  honest  glance  as  if 
he  knew  my  guilt.  Hence  my  frequent  visits  to 
France :  they  took  me  from  the  scene  of  my  crime : 
here  every  thing  reproaches  me.  The  spirit  of  the 
deceased  Sir  Matthew  will  confront  me  at  the  bar  of 
Heaven,  as  his  portrait  seems  to  frown  on  me  now. 
At  times  it  changes  strangely.  Oft  at  the  still  hour  of 
midnight  I  wake  and  find  in  its  place  the  sorrow-worn 
countenance  of  Philip  Errington  :  yet  I  have  no  pow- 
er to  change  to  another  room  ;  here  I  seem  spell-bound. 
On  this  bed  Sir  Matthew  breathed  his  last :  here,  too, 
I  must  soon  breathe  mine." 

At  this  moment  his  face  assumed  a  livid  hue,  and 
he  uttered  a  deep  groan,  and  pointed  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  Adcle  looked,  and  saw,  with  mingled  fear  and 
surprise,  Philip  the  gipsy,  with  folded  arms,  standing 
halfhidbythe  folds  of  the  drapery.  As  Sir  Ralph 
sunk  back,  Adele  seemed  to  borrow  courage  from  her 
situation,  and  turning  to  the  gipsy,  she  said : 

*'  I  know  not  why  you  thus  unseasonably  intrude 
upon  us.  My  uncle  is  sick,  and  ill  able  to  bear  the 
intrusion  of  a  stranger." 

"Lady,"  he  replied,  "I  am  no  stranger." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Sir  Ralph  started  from  his 
pillow.  "It  is  his  voice,"  he  said,  as  he  gasped  for 
breath,  "the  never  forgotten  voice  of  Philip  Erring- 
ton.  Oh,"  he  added,  "if  you  indeed  stand  before  mo 
a  living  man,  let  mo  repair  the  evil  I  have  done,  by 
restoring  to  you  your  just  riglits." 

A  dark  frown  gathered  on  the  gipsy's  brow,  and  ho 


THE  USURPER.  121 

replied  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion  :  "Philip  Errington 
does  stand  before  you,  but  you  can  never  restore  to 
him  that  of  which  you  have  deprived  him.  While 
you  revelled  in  the  comforts  of  my  home,  I  wa§ 
an  outcast,  a  wanderer  in  a  foreign  land,  with 
not  a  hand  to  aid,  nor  friendly  voice  to  cheer  me. 
Man  !  man  !  It  would  seem  cowardice  to  recount  the 
tale  of  my  sufferings  and  sorrows.  Through  your 
cruelty,  the  wife  of  my  bosom  sunk  to  an  early  grave  ; 
my  son  grew  to  manhood  under  the  withering  breath 
of  poverty  :  yet  have  I  never  cursed  you.  I  left  my 
cause  to  that  God  whose  unerring  wisdom  is  our  sur- 
est guide.  Since  the  wretched  Mowbray,  the  partner 
of  your  guilt,  disclosed  on  his  death-bed, — to  which 
chance  led  me, — the  share  he  had  in  the  vile  deed 
that  deprived  me  of  my  heritage,  I  have  dogged  your 
steps,  assured  a  day  of  retribution  would  arrive,  even 
here.  It  has  arrived  ;  and  though  the  grave  cannot 
give  up  the  dead,  nor  the  bright  and  joyous  days  of 
youth  again  be  mine,  yet,  for  my  son's  sake,  I  bend  in 
thankfulness  to  that  Power  who,  in  his  own  good  way, 
ever  proves  to  us  that  his  way  is  best.  The  evening 
of  my  life  may  yet  glide  calmly  on.  Adversity  has 
taught  me  many  a  useful  lesson  and  misery  made  me 
herd  with  strange  associates  ;  but  the  Power  I  have 
trusted  in  has  guarded  me  from  crime.  I  followed 
you  from  France  ;  and,  had  it  not  been  for  this  gen- 
tle girl,  you  would,  before  this  time,  have  felt  my 
vengeance  :  but  her  mother's  angel  spirit  beamed  in 
her  mild  blue  eye,  and  led  me  back  to  boyhood's  hap- 
py days,  when  the  heart  of  neither  had  known  a  sor- 
row. It  led  me  back,  too,  to  that  dark  time  when 
those  I  loved  were  perishing  with   want ;  when  she, 


122  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

like  an  angel  of  mercy,  came  to  save  and  cheer  us. 
I  thought  of  this,  and,  for  that  mother's  sake,  spared 
the  protector  of  her  cliild." 

Sir  Ralph  remained,  while  Philip  Errington  spoke, 
spell-bound.  As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  face  of  Sir 
Ralph  assumed  a  ghastly  hue.  Raising  his  trembling 
hands  he  exclaimed:  "Pardon!  Pardon  !"  and  sunk 
back,  to  all  appearance,  dead.  Adele  shrieked,  and 
sunk  senseless  on  the  floor. 

When  animation  returned,  another  had  been  added 
to  the  group.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  was  in 
the  arms  of  her  dark-eyed  nameless  lover,  he  for 
whom  her  young  heart  had  pined,  and  with  whom  she 
would  willingly  have  shared  the  poverty  which  he 
told  her  was  his  only  birth-right.  Before  she  could 
collect  her  bewildered  senses,  midst  the  unhoped  for 
bliss  and  mingled  wo  of  the  scene,  she  was  roused  by 
Sir  Ralph  feebly  pronouncing hername. 

"Adele,"  he  said,  as  she  bent  over  him,  "Adele,  I 
am  going  to  that  far-off  spirit  land,  from  whence  none 
has  even  returned  to  tell  its  secrets  ;  but,"  he  added 
faintly,  "while  I  tarry,  let  me  repair,  so  far  as  I  can, 
the  past.  In  tlie  ebon  cabinet  in  the  library  at  the 
chateau,  in  a  small  tin  case,  is  the  unsigned  will  of 
Sir  Matthew  Errington." 

"Like  this  !"  said  Pliilip,  as  he  held  up  a  small  tin 
case. 

The  wretched  man  gasped  for  breath  :  "  How  ? 
where  ?  where  ?" — he  said. 

"It  is  soon  explained,"  said  Philip.  "For  that  will, 
which  Mowbray  told  ni(>  was  ih.'iv,  my  son  hovered 
round  the  chateau.     To  that    will,   \  (.m- niece  is  in- 


THE    USUKPEK.  12^ 

debted  for  her  life.  He  brought  it  with  him  when  you 
turned  him  from  your  door." 

"  Oh,  Providence !  How  unfathomable  are  thy 
ways,"  exclaimed  the  dying  man.  "Come  hither, 
Adele.  Pray  for  me  ;  plead  for  me  to  that  God  whose 
commandmenis  1  have  trampled  upon,  and  whose  laws 
I  have  despised  :  plead  to  that  deeply  injured  man  to 
grant  me  pardon  here." 

Adele  looked  beseechingly  at  Philip,  who  advanced, 
and  taking  the  cold,  damp  hand  of  the  wretched  man 
in  his,  "  May  Heaven,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  of  deep 
feeling,  "pardon  and  forgive  you,  as  I  do." 

A  faint  smile  played  round  the  mouth  of  Sir  Ralph, 
as  he  gave  a  look  of  gratitude  to  Philip  and  beckoned 
the  younger  Errington  and  Adele  to  his  side.  Making 
a  last  effort,  taking  a  hand  of  each  and  joining  them, 
he  said  :  "  Be  happy — be  warned  by  me — there  is  but 
one  way — he  virtuous."  Ashe  uttered  the  last  word, 
Death  threw  his  dark  mantle  over  him  :  a  contortion 
of  the  face,  a  groan,  a  convulsive  shudder,  and  the 
usurper  of  another's  rights  was  no  more ! 


124  THE    LAUREL    WIl^ATH. 


THE  MAID  OF  ROCKLAND  LAKE 

A     B  A  L  L  AD. 

BT  REV.  EDWARD  HOPPER 

Where  Rockland's  peaceful  waters  lie 

Upon  their  granite  bed, 
There  lived  a  maid,  in  days  gone  by,  i 

Who  now  is  with  the  dead. 

\ 

Ah !  better  be  among  the  dead, 

If  her  sad  tale  be  sooth 
Of  heart  made  bleak,  pure  reason  fled. 

With  t)ie  crushed  hopes  of  youth. 

i 
[  saw  her  on  a  chilly  night  j  ' 

Amid  the  winter's  breath  I 

She  wandered  in  the  Moon's  cold  light, 

Pale  as  the  cheek  of  Death.  l 

The  north  wind  whistled  drear  and  chill, 

And  she  was  thinly  clad,  i 

Yet  wandered  she,  o'er  vale  and  hill. 

And  sane:  in  accents  sad.  J 


'o 


Thi!  song  was  of  the  absent  dead, 
And  it  would  wildly  roanj 


•.XElVTOHlt.'. 


':!^::^^:aAy^ie^^i^'/^-  ^A'et: 


THK  MAID  OF  ROCKLAND  LAKE.  125 

About  some  dark  and  cruel  deed, 
That  drove  her  from  her  home. 

Now,  she  was  once  most  wond'rous  fair  j 

They  told  me  this  who  knew : 
Dark  as  the  night  her  flowing  hair, 

Her  eye  a  heavenly  blue  : 

Her  form  was  such  as  limners  seek, 

She  moved  with  sylph-like  grace, 
The  rose-leaf  blushed  upon  her  cheek, 

And  heaven  was  in  her  face : 

Like  him  whose  work  of  doing  good 

Was  constant,  day  and  night, 
She  gave  unto  the  hungry,  food  ; 
.  To  sorrowing  ones,  delight. 

Now,  she  had  loved  a  gentle  youth. 

But  he  was  very  poor, 
And  so  her  father's  anger  sooth 

Drove  Bertram  from  his  door ! 

It  drove  him  from  his  home  away. 

Though  he  was  good  and  brave; 
He  went,  but  ere  another  day. 

Had  found  a  watery  grave. 

Oh,  bitter  tears  this  maiden  shed, 

Forced  from  her  love  to  part ; 
But  when  they  told  her  he  was  dead. 

It  broke  her  loving  heart. 


126  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

And  this  was  she,  the  maiden  fair. 

With  spirit  mild  and  sweet ; 
But  pale  her  cheek,  and  white  her  hair, 

As  snow-fall  at  her  feet. 

They  strove  to  keep  her  at  her  home, 

But  oft  she  broke  away, 
Among  the  snow-bleak  hills  to  roam, 

Where  her  poor  Bertram  lay. 

Her  father  wept,  but  wept  in  vain. 
For  she  was  crazed  and  wild  : 

Nor  could  his  tears,  though  poured  like  rain, 
Restore  his  only  child. 

"Oh,  Christ,"  he  cried,  full  ofi  and  sore, 

An  agonizing  prayer, 
"  Pity  my  sorrow,  and  restore 

My  darling  from  despair  !" 

In  sooth  it  was  a  fearful  sight — 

That  aged  man  and  gray, 
Bowed  down  with  sorrow  every  night, 

Lamenting  day  by  day. 

Could  tears  restore  the  word,  unsaid. 
That  broke  her  heart  in  twain, 

Could  prayers  recall  to  life  the  dead. 
His  had  not  been  in  vain. 

But,  all '  rcp(>iitancc  came  too  late, 
Too  late  lliat  father's  prayer: 


THE  BIAID  OF  ROCKLAND  LAKE.  127 

He  'd  forced  a  good  man  from  his  gate, 
His  daughter  to  despair. 

Now  she  had  come  to  Bertram's  grave  j 

And  falling  on  the  mound, 
She  called  to  him,  the  good  and  brave, 

There  pillowed  in  the  ground — 

Then  brushed  the  snow  from  off  the  earth 

With  her  white  tiny  hand. 
And  laughed  with  strange  and  startling  mirth, 

As  gathering  up  the  sand, 

She  placed  it  near  her  heart — "Oh,  why," 

She  shrieked,  "  sweet  father,  say, 
Should  Bertram,  my  own  Bertram,  die  ? 

Why  drive  him  thus  away  ?" 

Then  suddenly,  with  fixed  stare, 

She  cried,  "  Ah,  Bertram  dear  !" 
And  wildly  clasped  the  empty  air, 

"  I  thought  to  find  thee  here  ! 

"  Now  sit  thee  down,  and  I  will  sing 

The  song  thou  lovest  so  well :" 
She  sang — while  at  her  feet,  poor  thing, 

The  frozen  tear-drops  fell. 

"  Though  cruel  fate  divide  us  still. 
And  from  each  other  far  we're  driven, 

Yet  this  sweet  thought  our  heart  shall  fill : 
We  meet  again  in  heaven. 


12H  TlfK    LAUREL    WREATH. 

.  "  Though  hopes,  so  sweet,  must  fade  away, 
As  rainbows'  mingling  tints  are  riven, 
We  yet  shall  blend  in  love's  pure  ray, 
And  never  part,  in  heaven. 

"  Though  here  they  drive  us  from  our  love, 
And  pluck  away  our  star  of  even, 

They  cannot  rend  our  hearts  above, 
For  all  is  peace  in  heaven." 


DIFFICULTIES  IN  THE  GOVERNMEiVT  OF  GOD.       129 


DIFFICULTIES  IN  THE  GOVERNMENT  OF  GOD 

BY  REV.  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER,  D.  D. 

The  extent  of  God's  plans,  as  well  as  their  great- 
ness, utterly  baffles  us.  An  event,  of  which  we  think 
we  can  see  the  connection  and  part  of  the  reasons,  for 
one  of  our  little  days,  may  have  its  consequences  and 
its  explanation  stretching  off  thousands  of  years  hence. 
And  some  things,  of  which  we  can  give  absolutely  no 
account,  may  have  a  solution  so  simple,  that  its  very 
simplicity,  in  connection  with  our  own  pride  and  pre- 
judice, confounds  us.  What  we  know  we  know  but  in 
part,  and  it  must  be  so  as  long  as  we  are  in  the  world, 
and  even  in  regard  to  the  clearest  movements  in  God's 
providence.     It  has  been  so  in  all  ages. 

We  may  begin  with  the  history  of  God's  chosen 
people,  and  the  very  first  of  the  religious  ordinances 
appointed  for  their  observance,  the  Passover.  It  was 
to  constitute  their  religion  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years.  And  yet,  the  full  meaning  of  that  sacred  rite, 
how  few,  if  any,  could  have  understood.  Even  Mo- 
ses himself  did  not  perfectly  comprehend  it.  It  was 
only  the  prefiguring  of  the  great  Sacrifice  upon  the 
Cross,  and  the  minds  even  of  believers  must  have  ear- 
nestly desired  an  elucidation,  which  they  never  enjoy- 
ed, and  of  which,  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  they  were 

not  capable.     It  was  impossible,  at  the  foundation  of 
I  F2 


130  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

the  temple  of  grace,  to  know  how  the  buildhig  woulil 
look,  how  it  would  rise  to  heaven,  and  fill  the  universe 
with  its  glory,  when  the  key-stone  of  its  magnificent 
arch  was  brought  home,  with  shoutings  of  Grace, 
Grace,  unto  it.  Just  so  it  was  with  the  Brazen  Ser- 
pent, and  other  prefiguring  rites  and  symbols.  An 
ante-type  can  never  supply  the  place  of  the  reality ; 
if  so,  then  were  there  no  need  of  any  other  instructor. 

Our  intrinsic  ignorance  is  also  as  great  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  a  perfect  understanding  of  God's  plan,  as 
its  own  intrinsic  greatness.  We  know  very  little  even 
of  God's  material  works  ;  much  less  of  God's  provi- 
dence. To  understand  the  mere  crust  of  the  earth, 
the  outside  shell  of  our  terrestrial  habitation,  requires 
a  life-time  of  profound  study  and  reflection.  To  know 
how  a  blade  of  grass  grows,  or  a  sunbeam  shines,  or 
what  mysterious  power  it  is  that  streaks  the  heavens 
with  those  mild  flashes  of  light,  that  God's  pencil  draws 
across  the  stars  from  tlie  north,  if  it  does  not  transcend 
our  faculties,  is  beyond  our  present  attainments.  To 
gain  a  knowledge  of  the  mere  natural  machinery  of 
the  system  of  physical  worlds  around  u^,  or  a  mastery 
of  the  elements  of  mathematical  science,  or  a  profound 
acquaintance  with  any  part  of  natural  philosophy, 
requires  a  life-time,  even  for  a  mind  like  Newton's. 
Flow,  then,  can  we  expect  to  master  what  is  so  much 
higher  out  of  our  reach,  the  groat  plans  of  God,  and 
his  providential  dispensations  in  fulfilling  them.  How 
can  we  expect  but  that,  after  all  our  study,  there  will 
be  very  much  that  is  in  darkness,  and  totally  inscru- 
table. 

Hut,  iMnr(>  than  all  this,  our  vision  is  not  clour.     Wo 


DIFFICULTIES  IN  THE  GOVERNMENT  OF  GOD.       131 

have  a  moral  defect  and  distortion.  There  is  preju- 
dice  and  sin  in  the  way,  and  through  such  an  atmos- 
phere, with  such  imperfection  of  vision,  we  can  see 
scarcely  anything  as  it  is.  This  is  the  case,  just  in 
proportion  as  self  is  in  the  way.  A  fly  between  the 
glasses  of  the  telescope  covers  half  the  oib  of  day ;  so 
may  the  smallest  self-interest  shut  out  the  grandest 
truth.  We  often  view  God's  plans  and  God's  work  in 
just  the  wrong  direction,  beholding  it  like  the  wrong 
side  of  a  piece  of  tapestry,  full  of  odds  and  ends.  In- 
deed there  are  two  sides  to  God's  dispensations,  which 
are  very  different ;  the  side  toward  us,  and  the  side 
toward  eternity.  On  the  side  toward  eternity  every 
thing  is  bright  and  glorious ;  all  is  perfect,  as  far  as 
it  is  finished ;  God's  Wisdom,  Mercy,  and  Love,  in 
clear  display ;  good  brought  out  of  evil,  and  light  out 
of  darkness ;  afflictions  explained,  and  trials  turned 
into  blessings ;  the  wrath  of  man  made  to  praise  God, 
and  his  justice,  wherever  called  in  question,  vindica- 
ted. On  the  side  toward  us,  are  the  unfinished  mate- 
rials, the  loops,  and  knots,  and  twisted  skeins,  as  it 
were,  hanging  in  confusion ;  human  passions  conflict- 
ing and  raging ;  sin  and  cruelty  and  misery  prevail- 
ing ;  and  apparently  the  whole  ground- work  of  the 
picture  an  inexplicable  chaos.  Were  it  not  that  God 
shows  us  the  key  to  this  riddle  in  his  Word,  revealing 
to  us  there  a  reflection  of  that  glorious  sight,  which 
his  dispensation  from  toward  eternity,  we  should  in 
truth  be  left  in  profound  darkness  and  mistake. 

This,  then,  teaches  us,  in  the  most  striking  manner, 
the  infinite  value  of  God's  Word,  and  the  importance 
of  its  habitual,  prayerful  study.     There  God  has  con- 


132  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

descended  to  reveal  himself  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ, 
and  there  we  may  rise  to  a  knowledge  of  him  and  of  his 
plans,  which,  however  small  it  be,  in  comparison  with 
the  light  that  is  to  be  poured  around  us  in  Eternity,  is 
enough  to  fill  the  soul  with  blessedness.  It  is  enough 
to  quiet  all  our  anxieties,  and  to  make  us  realize,  in 
some  measure,  the  preciousness  of  the  promise,  that  all 
thinjjs  shall  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love  God. 
Indeed,  we  study  the  Word  so  little,  that  we  never 
fairly  make  the  experiment  how  much  we  may  know 
of  Him  and  of  his  plans  through  its  medium.  It  is 
wonderful  that  into  this  one  volume  even  the  most  con- 
tracted and  transitory  sketch  of  the  attributes  antl 
plans  of  the  Almighty  can  have  been  crowded.  Princi- 
ples and  purposes  are  there,  and  the  gems  of  things  ap- 
parently in  such  minute  compacture  as  to  bafile  all  our 
curiosity,  and  yet  in  such  capacity  of  infinite  expan- 
sion, that  when  the  soul  in  communion  with  God  enters* 
among  them,  they  enlarge  and  rise,  expand  and  swell, 
from  Time  into  Eternity,  from  what,  is  partial  ami 
fragmentary  into  what  is  universal  and  complete,  and 
constitute  an  infinite  reach  and  circumference  of  spir- 
itual scenery,  where  the  heart  wanders  on,  entran- 
ced and  enraptured  amid  vistas  of  glory,  beneatli  tlie 
trees  and  beside  the  rivers  of  the  Paradise  of  Life,  tluit 
are  absolutely  interminable.  Here  let  the  soul  rest,  and 
here  let  itwandcr  up  and  down,  and  study  and  meditate 
and  pray,  in  preparation  for  the  hour  when  tliat  which 
in  part  shall  be  done  away,  and  that  which  is  jxr- 
fcct  established  ;  when  we  sliall  no  more  see  asthrougb 
a  glass  <Iarkly,  but  face  to  face;  no  more  learn  in 
part,  liut  know  even  as  we  are  known. 


MRS.  HARRIET  NEWELL.  133 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  HARRIET  NEWELL. 

BY    REV.  T.   H.  GALLAUDET. 

When  heroes  die,  the  sons  of  song 
Bend  tearful  o'er  their  hearse, 

And  love  their  memories  to  prolong, 
Embalmed  in  lofty  verse. 

When  heroes  die,  the  sculptor's  skill 

Adorns  their  trophied  urn, 
And  bids  succeeding  ages  still 

Their  mighty  emprize  learn. 

Vain  strife !  devouring  Time  to  cheat 

Of  what  he  claims  his  prey  ; 
His  tooth  the  sculptur'd  urn  shall  eat, 

His  hand  blot  out  the  lay. 

Departed  saint !  whose  virgin-star, 
Though  short  its  bright  career, 

Outshone,  with  steady  lustre,  far 
The  hero's  dazzling  sphere. 

We  grieve  not  that  no  poet  tells. 

In  lofty  rhyme,  thy  worth  ; 
Nor  that  no  sculptur'd  marble  swells 

In  splendor  o'er  thy  earth. 


134  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

Far  sweeter  shall  thy  praises  be, 

Than  in  the  poet's  verse, 
When  Eastern  dames  thy  memory 
Shall  to  their  babes  rehearse ; 

And  bless  the  generous  love  that  led 
Thee  'cross  the  mighty  wave, 

'Mid  them  the  cheering  news  to  spread. 
Of  Jesus'  power  to  save. 

And  when  some  virgin  convert  finds 
The  spot  where  thou  art  laid, 

And  round  thy  humble  tomb-stone  binds 
A  modest,  flowery  braid  ; 

Whose  fragrance  to  the  hallowed  place 

Sweet  odors  shall  impart, 
'Twill  more  thy  fond  remembrance  grace 

Than  all  the  sculptor's  art. 


ST.  MUIR.  135 


ST.    MUIR. 


FOUNDED   ON    FACT. 


BT    ELIZA   TAN   HORNE    ELLIS. 


The  sun  lingered  in  his  departure  to  toucn  with 
golden  rays  the  wintry  landscape,  and  light  up  with  a 
momentary  splendor  the  scene  that  would  soon  be 
clothed  in  darkness.  The  noble  Hudson  now  lay  mo- 
tionless beneath  an  incubus  of  ice,  and  the  towering 
heights,  that  rose  on  each  side  were  partially  covered 
with  snow  :  on  the  highest  peak  glowed  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  decking  its  bleak  sides  in  seeming  array  of 
fairy  turrets  and  pellucid  temples :  the  trees  were  cov- 
ered with  frost,  and  from  their  leafless  branches  hung 
myriads  of  icicles,  that  reflected  a  thousand  rainbow 
hues,  and  as  the  wind  waved  them  to  and  fro,  they 
looked  like  an  elfin-dance  amid  their  crystaline  bow- 
ers. 

Encompassed  by  the  imposing  mountain-shade,  ran 
a  broad  plain  or  table-land,  upon  which  was  reared  a 
stately  mansion — the  lawn  sloped  gradually  to  the  edge 
•of  a  precipice  that  overhung  the  river.  Majestic  trees 
that  had  reared  their  proud  heads  (like  guardians  from 
the  seasons'  varied  visits)  for  centuries,  stood  around 
the  house.  Toward  the  southern  part  ran  a  garden, 
now  decked  in  winter's  livery ;  but  the  conservatory 


136  THE    LAUREL    -WREATH. 

that  joined  the  house  at  that  side,  bade  defiance  to  the 
cold,  unsocial  season,  as  within  its  glasses  bloomed  the 
pride  of  many  climes,  cheering  the  heart  with  their 
luxuriant  beauty,  while  all  nature  was  dying  with- 
out. 

In  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  mansion,  commanding  a 
view  of  the  river  and  setting  sun,  sat  an  aged  female, 
dressed  in  sable  garments,  her  features  sharp,  and  the 
eyes  deeply  sunken  ;  over  the  countenance  beamed 
an  expression  of  great  sadness,  mingled  with  much 
sweetness  and  resignation.  She  gazed  with  fond  ad- 
miration upon  the  face  of  a  young  girl  who  sat  at  her 
feet,  and  whose  head  rested  upon  her  knee.  A  book 
had  fallen  unconsciously  from  her  hand  as  her  arm 
hung  listlessly  by  her  side.  Cheerfulness,  blended 
with  comfort  and  refinement  pervaded  the  apartment, 
as  well  as  the  house.  A  bright  fire  glowed  upon  the 
hearth  ;  heavy  damask  curtains  (though  of  antique 
pattern)  excluded  the  wintry  winds.  A  beautiful 
cabinet  for  books  stood  in  one  side  of  the  chimney 
place,  while  a  large  grand  piano  occupied  the  other. 
Upon  the  hearth-rug  reposed  a  Newfoundland  dog,  a 
faithful  companion  of  the  ladies,  especially  the  young- 
er, as  he  had  "grown  with  licr  growth,"  and  liis  watch- 
ful eye  was  ever  upon  her,  while  a  deep  low  growl, 
with  a  display  of  a  formidable  set  of  weapons,  warned 
the  intruder  of  an  untimely  approach. 

After  shading  for  some  time  the  dark  chcsnut  tress- 
es that  reposed  in  rich  undulating  masses  upon  the 
brow  of  her  young  companion,  and  watching  the  shad- 
ows of  thought  as  they  flitlt-d  over  that  expressive 
countenance,  the  elder  lady  at  'cngth  said, 


ST.  MUIR.  137 

"  Well,  my  child,  suppose  you  unburden  that  little 
brain,  and  reveal  the  passing  thought.  Come,  love, 
tell  me,  what  castle  of  fancy  have  you  built  upon  yon- 
der snow-capped  mountain  ?" 

"  Ah,  dear  grandmama,  you  are  always  jesting  about 
my  fairy  dreams ;  but  this  time  my  thoughts  were  wan- 
dering  far  away  to  the  gay  metropolis.  I  was  think- 
ing of  my  mother,  my  poor  mother.  Oh !  tliat  she 
would  permit  me  to  watch  over  her  drooping  frame, 
an:]  soothe  her  increasing  illness." 

As  she  concluded,  she  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  her 
companion's  face,  and  observing  the  sad  expression 
upon  the  revered  countenance,  she  flung  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  cried, 

"  Why  so  sad  ?  Do  you  think,  even  for  a  moment, 
in  my  castle-building,  I  ever  separate  from  your  side  ? 
You  little  know  the  heart  of  your  Gertrude.  But  it 
would  be  so  delightful  to  be  with  mama ;  for,  beside 
you,  I  have  but  her  to  love,  you  know,  and  Milo  too. 
How  few  !"  she  sighed,  deeply. 

The  old  lady  smiled  as  she  looked  upon  the  lovely 
face  that  reclined  upon  her  bosom.  The  smile  was 
saddened  as  she  heard  her  enumerate  how  few  she  had 
to  love. 

"  Ah !  Gertrude,  you  little  dream  how  rich  in  love 
is  the  possessor  that  can  rely  upon  three  true  hearts  ; 
for,  my  child,  my  love  is  centered  in  one."  And  she 
kissed  the  young  girl  fervently. 

"  Oh,  yes,  grandma,  I  have  heard  and  read  of  that 
one  love — that  all-absorbing  feeling  of  the  heart — the 
concentration  of  every  emotion  into  one.     But  that  is 


138  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

not  the  love  you  bear  for  me :  it  is  a  more  definite 

feeling  !" 

"My  love  for  you,  Gertrude,  emanates  from  the 
source  of  by-gone  hopes,  as  well  as  for  your  dear  self. 
This  heart,  that  now  holds  but  your  image,  cherished 
once  the  warm  feelings  of  a  devoted  wife,  and  the  af- 
fections of  a  happy,  happy  mother.  But  I  have  lived 
to  feel  fibre  after  fibre  torn  from  my  heart,  my  dreams 
of  happiness  pass  into  the  reality  of  sorrow  and  disap- 
pointment. But  I  bow  submissively  to  the  Divine 
will,  and  feel  the  conviction  within,  that  when  1  shall 
throw  oiTthis  mortal  coil,  (which  must  be  ere  long,)  I 
shall  be  re-united  to  husband  and  children.  That 
hope  will  cheer  my  way  to  the  invisible  world." 

"  May  the  love  and  devotion  of  your  Gertrude  soothe 
your  pathway  through  life.  But  sometimes  my  spir- 
its  are  so  wild,  that  I  shock  your  gentle  nature  ;  but 
one  look  from  those  dark,  sad  eyes,  will  always  bring 
the  heedless  one  to  your  side." 

"Be  ever  thus,  my  love;  restrain  not  the  exuber- 
ancc  of  an  innocent  and  guileless  breast ;  for,  believe 
me,  the  cold  waters  of  adversity  and  sorrow  soon  rush 
over  our  young  hearts  and  sweep  away  our  happy 
feelings.  Look  not  so  sad,  Gertrude  ;  but  as  you  re- 
flect upon  the  future,  remember — clouds  will  darken 
the  bright  coloring  of  life." 

"  Think  you,  dear  grandmama,  that  we  should  al- 
ways  be  anticipating  coming  evils,  and  thus  sadder, 
the  spring-time  of  life  ?" 

"  Nay,  my  child  ;  mistake  me  not.  To  be  fancy- 
ing evil  in  every  blast  that  meets  the  ear,  or  a  storm 
in  every  cloud  ;  or  to  be  constantly  dwelling  upon 


ST.  MUIR.  139 

gloom,  is  wrong.  It  is  doubting  the  capability  of  the 
Power,  that  we  daily  cast  ourselves  Upon  for  protec- 
tion. But  through  life  we  must  endeavor  to  temper 
our  feelings,  while  in  the  enjoyment  of  happiness,  so 
as  to  meet  with  cheerfulness  the  reverses  that  may  be 
our  destiny  here." 

"  May  you  long  live  to  be  a  guide  to  your  Gertrude, 
for  something  whispers  here  that  I  shall  not  always  be 
as  happy  as  I  am  now." 

Thus  spoke  Gertrude  Lemour,  the  orphan  daugh- 
ter of  George  Lemour.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
he  eloped  from  boarding-school  with  a  young  girl  of 
great  beauty  and  wealth  ;  but  heedless  and  capricious, 
a  devotee  to  the  shrine  of  pleasure.  Too  soon  did  the 
husband  awaken  to  the  conviction  that  domestic  hap- 
piness was  not  for  him  to  enjoy.  Upon  his  child,  he 
lavished  all  the  affections  of  his  heart :  and  in  traininor 
her  to  the  paths  of  virtue,  he  looked  forward  to  years 
of  comfort.  But,  alas  !  death  cut  short  the  scheme 
of  bliss,  and  deprived  Gertrude  of  a  doating  father ; 
and,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  made  his  wife  a  Avidow. 

Upon  the  repeated  solicitations  of  the  paternal  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Lemour  resigned  her  daughter  to  her 
care,  who  received  the  little  Gertrude  as  a  precious 
gift  from  the  hands  of  the  worldly-minded  mother. 

Gertrude  was  decidedly  like  her  mother  in  feature, 
but  her  beauty  was  more  mellowed.  The  soul  of  love 
shone  through  her  hazel  eyes :  the  very  tenderness 
of  their  expression  revealed  the  deep  fountain  of  feel- 
ing from  whence  it  sprang.  She  was  all  impulse  j 
and  her  smile  was  like  a  sunbeam  upon  roses,  so  bright 
and  pure.     Gertrude  was  by  nature  impetuous  ;  but 


140  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

the  sadness  of  the  guardians  of  her  infancy  subdued 
the  liarsher  traits  of  her  character. 

To  the  care  and  attention  of  the  pastor  of  that  quiet 
spot  A\as  Gertrude  indebted  for  those  solid  acquire- 
ments  which  are  too  often  thought  beyond  the  capacity 
of  the  weaker  sex. 

Every  one  loved  Gertrude,  and  she  loved  all  things, 
animate  and  inanimate,  around  her.  Although  of  an 
ardent  temperament,  she  never  wearied  of  what  many 
would  call  a  life  of  seclusion.  She  lived  in  a  fairy 
scene,  created  by  her  own  happy  disposition.  When 
tired  of  books  or  music,  she  would  ramble  forth — and 
found  a  never-failing  charm  in  nature.  All  seasons, 
as  they  revolved,  cast  their  magic  spell  around  her : 
but  she  would  sometimes  sigh — a  shade  creep  over  her 
buoyant  spirits  ;  why,  she  knew  not.  In  the  midst 
of  her  rambles  and  fancies,  she  would  pat  the  head  of 
her  faithful  dog,  and  wish  he  was  more  communica- 
tive, and  could  understand  the  overflowings  of  her 
imaginings.  Mrs.  Lcmour  was  always  ready  to  listeri 
to  her  descriptions  of  glowing  sunsets  and  beautiful 
views,  that  had  so  enchanted  her.  But  at  tlie  conclu- 
sion, the  kind  old  lady  invariably  cautioned  Gertrude 
to  beware  of  precipices,  and  not  to  exceed  the  bound- 
ary of  the  fences — thus  throwing  back  upon  herself 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  young  heart. 

Two  years  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Le- 
mour  gave  her  iiand  to  Mr.  Mansfield,  a  Virginian  by 
birth.  Mis  father  had  been  a  Colonel  in  the  army  of 
the  Revolution,  and  devoted  his  fortunes  to  tlie  service 
of  liis  country.  His  sword  was  never  in  the  scabbard 
when  the  star-spangled  banner  was  unfurled,  oi   tlio 


ST.  MTTIR.  141 

loud  trump  called  to  victory.  He  swerved  not  from 
the  mighty  struggle  in  which  he  engaged,  but  stood 
firm,  as  a  brave  soldier  and  zealous  patriot.  When 
the  glorious  cause  was  won,  and  the  gladshout  of  lib- 
erty had  gone  forth  throughout  the  land.  Colonel  Mans- 
field retired  from  active  service  with  broken  fortunes, 
but  a  glad  heart.  Ere  he  embarked  in  the  perilous 
enterprise,  he  had  plighted  his  faith  to  a  lovely  girl, 
whose  heart  beat  in  unison  with  her  lover's  enthusiasm 
for  the  'cause;'  and  after  a  lapse  of  peril  and  danger 
they  met,  and  her  fidelity  was  a  reward  for  all  his 
toils. 

The  day  that  shone  upon  the  proclamation  of  peace 
between  the  mother  country  and  her  former  colonies, 
witnessed  his  union  with  her  who  had  ever  been  to 
him  a  guiding-star  to  fame.  Their  eldest  son  was 
named  George  Washington.  The  flower  was  not  des- 
tined  to  expand,  but  was  nipped  in  the  bud.  Four 
followed  the  fate  of  theeldest ;  and  the  bereaved  parents 
held,  with  trembling  joy,  their  youngest  boy  to  their 
breast. 

Henry  survived  the  period  that  carried  his  brothers 
to  the  tomb,  and  soon  sprung  up  into  a  hardy  youth. 
But  the  repeated  losses  sustained  by  Mrs.  Mansfield 
hurried  her  to  the  grave  :  the  Colonel  survived  but  a 
brief  period  her  loss ;  and  Henry,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
stoodalone  in  the  world.  His  first  determination  was  the 
army.  But  the  war  was  over,  and  he  sighed  for  ac- 
tive life.  Through  the  intercession  of  an  old  and  val- 
ued friend  of  his  father's,  he  obtained  the  situation  of 
supercargo  of  a  ship  to  the  Island  of  Jamaica. 

At  the  age  of  twenty -one,  Henry  Mansfield  left  his 


142  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

native  shores  full  of  youth's  wild  expectations.     His 
clear,  broad  forehead,  and  light,  gay  laugh,  were  the 
mirror   of   his    heart.     But    the    lines    around    hi  < 
mouth  denoted  an  indecision    of  character,  and  th  • 
restless  eye  bespoke  imbecility  of  purpose.     His  feel 
ings  were  kind,  and  his  temper  gentle  ;  but  he  was  thi 
sport  of  every  circumstance,  the  creature  of  the  mo 
ment. 

.  Within  sight  of  their  destined  port,  a  tempest 
swept  the  mighty  deep,  and  the  noble  ship  which,  but 
a  brief  space  before,  rode  so  proudly  upon  the  waves, 
became  a  prey  to  the  devouring  element.  A  few  of 
the  crew  and  passengers  were  saved — among  the 
number,  Henry  Mansfield. 

Four  years  elapsed  ere  he  returned  to  his  native 
country.  He  wandered  about  from  Island  to  Island; 
and  after  a  sojourn  of  some  months  at  Martinique,  he 
landed  at  Norfolk.  No  lonijer  the  ";av,  the  lifrht-hcart- 
ed,  he  moved  among  his  friends  the  spectre  of  his  for- 
mer self  Still,  he  was  eminently  handsome,  and, 
when  the  humor  prompted  him,  he  could  steal  the  fan- 
cy, in  defiance  of  prejudice.  He  inmiediately  sought 
out  the  warm-hearted  friend  of  his  youth,  now  the  only 
being  to  whom  he  clung.  With  the  kindness  of  a  pa 
rent,  this  tried  friend  fostered  him,  and  proclaimed  him 
his  heir,  on  condition  that  Henry  married  and  becama 
the  father  of  a  son,  who  should  take  the  name  of  tlio 
good  old  mail.  The  roving  fancies  of  Mr.  Mansfield 
were  at  length  fixed  by  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Lemour, 
(the  motlier  of  Gertrude.)  No  one  shared  his  confi- 
donco.  He  seemed  the  sport  of  wild  hursts  of  passion, 
which  would  sometimes  sway  hismind  to  almost  a  loss 


ST.  MUIR.  143 

of  reason.  His  bearing  was  generally  cold  and  con- 
strained, but  ever  courteous,  commanding  due  defer- 
ence. Few  loved  him.  To  his  wife  his  manner  was 
reprehensibly  indulgent.  A  dark  frown  would  pass 
over  his  features  at  her  follies  ;  but  he  was  never  heard 
to  reprove  or  check  her  in  her  gay  career.  To  Ger- 
trude  he  wan  ever  kind  and  gentle,  but  evidently  in- 
different  and  heartless.  He  disliked  children,  and  a 
cloud  would  settle  upon  his  brow  whenever  a  fine  boy 
was  thrust  upon  his  notice.  He  was  childless — and 
the  splendid  possessions  upon  which  he  had  so  long" 
looked  as  his  own,  were  likely  to  prove  but  the  "  base- 
less fabric  of  a  dream." 

Charleston  was  the  native  place  of  his  wife,  and 
there  they  continued  to  live  after  her  second  marriage. 
But  she  became  wearied  of  the  South ;  her  health  in- 
jured  by  a  life  of  excitement,  she  determined  to  ac- 
company her  husband  to  the  North,  who  had  a  law- 
suit of  importance  pending  at  New  York.  She  seldom 
thought  of  her  child  *  and,  except  when  they,  during 
the  summer  months,  occasionally  visited  the  mansion 
of  Mrs.  Lemour,  the  mother  and  daughter  never  met. 
But  now  she  was  ill — there  was  a  void  in  her  heart — 
she  thought  of  Gertrude. 

Upon  their  arrival  at  the  North,  the  routine  of  dis- 
sipation for  a  while  revived  the  drooping  spirits  of  Mrs. 
Mansfield.  Her  rich  and  dignified  companion  was  now 
hailed  as  an  old  acquaintance  by  many  who  had  forgot- 
ten even  his  name  but  for  his  wealth.  He  extended  the 
hand  to  all  with  seeming  friendliness,  but  missed  one  for 
whom  in  youth  he  had  formed  a  sincere  friendship ;  a 
man,  though  descended  from  an  ancient  family,  pos- 
sessing a  strong  mind  and  strict  principles  of  honesty. 


144  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

could  never  catch  the  tide  of  fortune  at  the  flood,  .but 
was  ever  the  sport  of  that  capricious  dame. 

Mr.  Travers  married  young  and  for  love — and  was 
left  a  widower  with  one  child,  (a  daughter  of  three 
years  old)  pennyless  and  broken-hearted.  Years  roll- 
ed on,  and  his  daughter  grew  to  womanhood;  and 
Travers  managed  but  to  exist,  when  Mr.  Mansfield 
arrived  in  the  metropolis. 

During  an  evening  visit  of  a  mutual  acquaintance, 
Mr.  Mansfield  inquired  the  address  of  Mr.  Travers, 
his  old  friend,  as  he  continued, 

"  I  have  a  suit  I  wish  to' transfer  into  his  hands." 
"  Why,  Travers  is  a  clever  fellow — fine  talents,  no 
doubt ;  but  I  would  not  advise  you  to  place  an  affair 
of  consequence  in  his  hands,  notwithstanding." 
"Your  reasons,  my  dear  sir?" 
a  Why— ahem — Well,  in  the  first  place,  Mr.  Tra- 
vers has  but  little  standing  at  the  bar.     Rather  an  un- 
lucky fellow  ;  has  been  sailing  with  adverse  winds — 
and — in  fact,  he  lives  in  some  obscure  street,  that  it  is 
worth  the  cause  he  wins  to  find  him  out." 

"  Strange  !  His  name  has  been  mentioned  to  mo  as 
a  profound  jurist.  I  am  of  opinion  that  Poverty  has 
been  his  greatest  enemy.  In  his  rising  to  eminence, 
he  has  wanted  some  influential  friend  to  aid  him  to 
the  first  stepping-stone ;  for  I  regret  to  say  that,  in  this 
country  as  well  as  all  others,  no  profession  prospers 
without  patronage — and  that  talent,  however  groat,  re- 
mains in  the  shade,  if  it  miss  the  current  of  popularity. 
Mr.  Travers'  address,  if  you  please?" 

"  Ah!  let  me  see.     Upon  honor,  I  cannot  recall  to 
mind  the  name  of  the  street.     My  time  is  so  occupied 


ST.  MUIR.  145 

with  public  affairs  that  I  cannot  find  leisure  to  look  up 
those  who  choose  to  shut  themselves  up  in  some  obscure 
street  in  this  vast  city."  Here  the  guest  stroked  down 
his  vest  and  looked  important. 

Mr.  Mansfield  seemed  surprised — arose  and  rang 
the  bell. 

"  Thomson,  1  wish  to  have  the  address  of  James 
Travers,  Esq.,  Counsellor  at  Law,  this  evening." 

The  servant  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Upon  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Mansfield  called 
upon  his  old  friend.  A  mutual  liking  sprang  up  be- 
tween the  ladies.  Maria  amused  the  listless  moments 
of  Mrs.  Mansfield,  by  reading  and  answering  her 
daughter's  letters — an  occupation  anything  but  agree- 
able to  the  invalid  mother. 

Maria  Travers,  as  before  mentioned,  lost  her  moth- 
er when  but  a  child.  Her  only  parent  stood  alone  in 
the  world.  No  friend,  no  relative  stepped  forward  to 
aid  him  in  combating  with  the  iron  hand  of  poverty. 

Maria  was  endowed  by  nature  with  a  sprightly  mind, 
and  a  love  of  gaiety  and  dress,  which  the  slender  purse 
of  her  father  prevented  hfer  from  enjoying.  His  stern 
countenance  and  silent  demeanor  checked  the  natural 
ficw  of  confidence  which  ever  exists  in  youthful  breasts. 
Sad,  indeed,  and  profitless,  were  the  moments  that  the 
father  and  child  passed  together  in  the  uncongenial 
study. 

The  feelings  of  Maria,  thur-  untutored,  were  left  to 

riot  upon  the  harsher  qualities  of  her  nature  ;  and  the 

rich  harvest  of  her  mind,  which  promised  so  fair  in 

childhood,  was  blasted  ere  it  came  to  maturity. 

Her  only  parent  loved  her  blindly,  and  although  he 
K  G 


140  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

would  Start  at  detecting  an  idle  artifice,  or  a  deviation 
from  the  path  of  truth  :  still  the  affection  that  he  bore 
her,  ever  found  withip  his  breast  an  extenuation  for 
the  fault. 

Upon  her  introduction  to  the  Mansfields,  Maria  saw 
at  a  glance  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  such 
friends.  Therefore,  with  much  adroit  flattery,  she 
soon  rendered  herself,  useful  to  that  lady — not  that  a 
congenial  thought  or  feeling  existed  between  them ; 
but  Maria  was  ever  ready  to  soothe  the  pillow  of  ill- 
ness, or  gratify  the  various  capricious  whims  of  the 
fashionable  invalid.  And  while  she  displayed  toward 
Mrs.  Mansfield  the  open  manner  of  a  sincere  friend, 
she  lost  no  opportunity  in  endeavoring  to  undermine 
the  affections  of  the  husband  for  the  wife,  and  to  es- 
trange the  feeble  spark  of  love  that  glimmered  in  the 
breast  of  the  mother  from  Gertrude.  She  fearetl  the 
influence  of  that  young  and  guileless  heart. 

In  defiance  of  her  husband's  wishes  and  the  injunc- 
tions of  her  physician,  Mrs.  Mansfield  plunged  deeply 
into  the  gaiety  of  the  metropolis;  and  as  she  moved 
through  the  crowded  roomS,  admired,  caressed,  and 
flattered,  slie  escaped  not  from  the  envenomed  tooth 
of  envy.  And  on  her  return  to  her  home,  while  she 
lay  exhausted  upon  her  pillow,  the  prey  to  illness,  she 
was  the  subject  of  many  a  bitter  sarcasm,  and  mock- 
ing pity — how  her  beautiful  lip  would  have  curled 
with  ineffable  scorn,  to  have  heard  the  scorpion-hiss 
of  scandal  breathed  upon  her  name,  by  those  who  hated 
her  fl)r  gifts  which  nature  had  denied  to  them. 

Beautiful,  admired,  rich  and  gay — could  she  escape 
the  syrtis  of  society  ? 


ST.  MUIR.  147 

It  was  the  middle  of  March — and  the  sun  smiled 
brightly  upon  the  mantle  of  snow  that  had  covered  the 
earth  for  many  weeks.  The  warmth  of  its  rayscaus- 
ed  the  mountain  sides  to  look  dark  and  grim :  the 
branches  of  the  trees  shook  in  the  whistling  winds, 
disrobed  of  their  gay  deckings  of  glittering  ice.  Ger- 
trude stood  by  the  window  watching  the  robins  hopping 
around  in  quest  of  their  daily  crumb.  So  balmy  and 
pure  was  the  air  that,  with  the  sanguine  feelings  of 
youth,  she  decided  that  dreary  winter  was  weary  of 
.lis  visit,  and  that,  ere  long,  spring,  bringing  in  its 
train  the  warbling  birds  and  blooming  flowers,  would 
begin  its  short  but  delightful  reign. 

Mrs.  Lemour  smiled,  as  she  entered  the  room  and 
heard  Gertrude's  rhapsodies.  She  handed  her  a  let- 
ter. It  was  from  Mrs.  Mansfield,  who  was  ill  in  con- 
sequence of  a  cold  taken  at  the  last  bal  costume. 

Gertrude  perused  the  epistle  with  pain.  It  breath- 
ed repinings  and  sufferings  ;  but  not  a  wish  for  the 
presence  of  her  child.  At  the  conclusion,  she  bade 
her  be  happy  with  those  on  whom  she  had  chosen  to 
bestow  her  affections. 

"How  strange  it  is,"  thought  Gertrude.  "My 
mother  seems  jealous  of  my  love  for  the  only  being 
that  cares  for  me.  And  yet  she  never  expi-esses  a 
wish  to  have  me  near  her.  But  the  hand  of  a  stran- 
ger  soothes  her  fevered  brow,  and  performs  those  en- 
dearing offices  which  should  be  my  privilege." 

Tears  blinded  her  eyes.  Folding  the  letter,  she  sat 
plunged  in  deep  and  troubled  thought.  A  slight  touch 
upon  her  arm  aroused  her  from  her  painful  reverie. 
By  her  side  stood  a  blooming  boy  about  seven  years 


148  THE    LAUTIRL    WREATH. 

old,  whose  lovely  countenance  expressed  deep  con- 
cern. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Charley  ?  How  are  your 
mother  and  uncle  ?" 

"Oh!  Miss  Gertrude,  poor  uncle  is  very  ill,  and 
mama  wishes  you  to  come  to  the  parsonage  right  away, 
if  you  please." 

In  an  instant  all  was  forgotten  save  the  illness  of  her 
beloved  preceptor.  With  a  small  basket  upon  her 
arm,  filled  from  tlie  pantry  of  Mrs.  Lemour,  (thelaily- 
bountiful  of  the  village)  and  closely  enveloped  in  cloak 
and  furs,  she  was  soon  wending  her  way  toward  t'e 
parsonage.  The  road  lay,  for  nearly  a  half  of  a  mile, 
along  the  bank  of  the  river,  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  above  its  level,  and  then  turned  suddenly  in- 
to the  interior  of  the  country. 

Wlicn  Gertrude  and  her  young  companion  arrived 
at  this  point,  she  involuntarily  lingered  to  gaze  upon 
the  scene.  In  the  distance,  high  mountains  reared 
their  silvery  crests  against  the  clear  bine  horizon, 
while  the  lesser  hills  and  valleys,  covered  here  and 
there  with  patches  of  dazzling  whiteness,  were  che- 
quered with  sunshine  and  deep  shadows  from  those 
giant  guardians  of  the  noble  river  that  now  reposed  in 
sullen  stillness  at  their  base.  So  absorbed  in  thought 
was  Gertrude,  that  the  voice  of  Cliarles  scarcely  re- 
called  her  attention  to  animate  objects  around  her. 

"Oh,  look.  Miss  Gertrude,  at  that  dear  little  bird 
down  there,  just  below  that  rock.  Poor  little  tiling — 
it  lias  fallen,  and  is  trying  to  get  up.     I'll  go  and  hrlp 

it." 


ST.  MUIR.  149 

Before  Gertrude  fully  comprehended  the  purpose 
of  the  boy,  he  had  gained  a  lower  ledge  of  rocks,  and 
with  an  unsteady  footing  upon  the  ice-covered  path- 
way, was  endeavoring  to  reach  the  desired  spot.  With 
a  scream  of  terror,  Gertrude  commanded  him  to  re- 
turn. Poor  child — he  heeded  her  not :  he  could  not 
check  the  impetus  given  to  his  footsteps  ;  but  amid  the 
wd!d  cries  of  Gertrude,  he  fell  far  below  the  fluttering 
bird.  As  she  beheld  the  child  lying  motionless  be- 
fore her,  that,  but  a  brief  space,  bounded  in  innocent 
mirth  by  her  side,  along  the  same  path,  she  thought 
not.  of  herself;  but  throwing  off  her  cloak  and  shoes, 
she  attempted  to  descend  to  where  the  child  lay.  Re- 
peatedly she  missed  her  footing,  but  caught  to  some 
leafless  branch  that  overhung  the  place.  As  she  made 
one  more  struggle  to  reach  the  spot,  the  ice  on  which 
she  had  placed  her  feet,  suddenly  gave  way.  Invol- 
untarily, she  entwined  her  arms  around  a  fir-tree  that 
reared  its  ever  verdant  top  amid  the  dreariness  of  win- 
ter, and  making  a  violent  effort,  she  swung  herself 
from  the  spot,  as  the  platform  of  ice  on  which  she  had 
stood  dashed  with  a  deafening  crash  upon  the  rocks 
below.  The  tree  rebounded  with  her  slight  weight : 
terrified  and  dizzy,  as  she  cast  her  eyes  below,  her 
hands  refused  their  support — with  a  shriek  of  despair, 
she  fell. 

The  village  gossips  were  ever  on  the  alert  to  catch 
a  circumstance,  however  trifling,  that  occurred  at  the 
mansion  of  Mrs.  Lemour-^as  they  felt  the  importance 
of  that  lady,  far  more  than  the  good  old  lady  herself; 
and  therefore  seldom  left  an  event  that  occurred  there 
unscanned. 


150  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

The  day  of  rest  is,  generally,  in  the  count ly,  a  day 
of  caballing  and  comparing  notes — and  ere  tlie  servi- 
ces commence,  the  stillness  of  the  sacred  sanctuary  is 
disturbed  by  whispers  and  subdued  ejaculations. 

It  was  the  Sabbath  day.  The  bright  sun  and  balm} 
air — the  deep  tones  of  the  bell — induced  many  to  pre- 
pare for  church,  thinking  that  possibly  something  new 

might  be  gathered from  the  worthy  pastor?     Ah! 

no  ! — but  from  the  group  that  dotted  the  aisles  previous 
to  the  commencement  of  the  service.  At  an  early 
hour,  four  or  five  females  were  seen  standing  Icanintj 
against  a  pew,  paying  deep  attention  to  the  earnest 
narrative  of  one  of  the  party.  At  length  the  voice 
grew  from  low  murmurs  into  an  audible  whisper  ;  and 
the  auricular  faculties  were  stretched  to  the  utmost  to 
catch  a  word. 

"  Sad  news  to-day,  Mrs.  Pry.  They  say  that  poor 
Gertrude  Lemour  is  disfigured  for  life  by  that  fall. 
AH  her  bones  broken,  and  her  features  cut  to  pieces. 
What  a  fright!     Poor  thing!  such  a  pretty  creature 


"You  don't  say  so!"  cried  the  daughter,  in  a  tone 
bordering  almost  on  delight;  but  with  a  countenance 
of  great  concern.  "  Well,  I  am  sorry — very  sorry, 
indeed — but  /  never  could  see  her  wonderful  beauty. 
She  was  always  so  mighty  condescending,  as  if  no  one 
was  handsome  but  herself!"  (Miss  Pry  was  a  coun- 
try belle !) 

'•They  say,"  cried  another  gossip,  "that  Mrs.  Le- 
mour, upon  beholding  Gertrude,  fell  into  a  swoon,  and 
has  never  had  her  reason  since — so  that  it  is  dreadful 
to  hear  her  moan  and  cry." 


ST.  MUIR.  151 

"  Well  she  may,"  cried  another,  "  for  that  girl  is  all 
the  comfort  she  has,  except  her  money.  As  for  Ger- 
trude's mother — why,  she  is  a  perfect  heathen  !" 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Strange  things  are  told  of  her,  I  have 
heard  things  that  would  astonish  you.  Bless  me  !  the 
wickedness  of  this  world  !" 

"  Have  you  ?"  "  Have  you  ?"  sounded  several  voi- 
ces. "  Can't  you  mention  a  few  particulars  ?  We 
have  heard  something." 

"  Excuse  me  for  the  present — must  hear  more — you 
understand — don't  like  to  spread  reports  injurious  to 
persons.     I  hate  scandal." 

A  demure  little  body  now  joined  the  group,  on  her 
way  to  the  pew.  Putting  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth,  she  whispered, 

"  Poor  Gertrude  Lemour  is  actually  dying — past 
all  hope — is  to  be  prayed  for.  Do  you  know  who  it 
was  that  first  discovered  her  ?     Find  out,  won't  you  ?" 

The  solemn  strains  of  the  organ  aroused  the  gossips 
to  a  consciousness  of  where  they  were  standing. — 
With  hasty  steps  and  confused  thoughts,  they  hurried 
to  their  respective  seats,  fully  impressed  with  Mrs. 
Mansfield's  heathenism,  the  death  of  Gertrude ;  and 
while  their  heads  were  lowly  bent  upon  their  books, 
many  caught  their  truant  thoughts  wondering  to  whom 
Mrs.  Lemour  would  leave  her  property  upon  the 
drath  of  her  granddaughter. 

H:        4:        4:        4:        :f         4:        4: 

The  piercing  shriek  of  Gertrude  fell  upon  the  ear 
of  a  young  man  who  was  amusing  himself  by  track- 
ing the  wild  rabbits  along  the  snow-clad  paths.  Spring- 
ing from  the  cover  of  an  overhanging  rock,  in  a  bed 


152  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

of  snow  he  beheld  the  apparently  lifeless  form  of  Ger. 
trude  lying  at  his  feet.  With  deep  emotion  he  raised 
her  head,  and  gazed  upon  those  still  features,  that  but 
a  moment  before  were  glowing  with  life  and  anima- 
tion !  Lifting  her  in  his  arms,  he  attempted  to  gain 
the  road,  where  he  could  command  assistance.  The 
motion  revived  her,  and  appeared  ■  to  give  her  pain  ; 
for,  unclosing  her  eyes,  she  seemed  conscious  of  exter- 
nal objects.  She  thought  the  hand  of  death  was  upon 
her — a  shudder  crept  through  her  frame — she  heeded 
not  the  stranger  that  supported  lier  giddy  head — slie 
sighed  deeply,  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  sunk 
again  into  insensibility. 

The  shouts  of  the  stranger,  n^ingled  with  the  cries 
of  the  boy,  (who,  though  much  bruised,  was  aware  of 
all  that  had  passed,)  brought  several  persons  to  liis 
aid.  A  rude  litter  was  hastily  framed,  and  witli  much 
gentleness,  the  hapless  Gertrude,witli  the  little  Charles, 
were  conveyed  to  her  grandmother's  dwelling.  It  was 
heart-rending  to  witness  the  anguish  of  that  aged  pa- 
rent, as  she  beheld  the  last  link  that  bound  lier  to  life, 
thus  about  to  be  so  rudely  severed.  Her  heart  seem- 
ed crushed — the  sorrows  of  past  years  were  crowded 
into  tliat  moment. 

But  Gertrude  still  lived — though  many  \\ecks  had 
dragged  slowly  onward  to  those  who  had  watched  with 
tearful  eyes,  the  spark  of  life  that  seemed  strugglhig 
with  the  dread  tyrant.  Death.  But  youth  conquered, 
and  the  joyful  tidings  rang  through  the  house  that  the 
danger  was  past,  and  their  idol  was  still  j)crmitted  to 
remain  among  them.  Oh !  who  can  paint  Mrs.  Le- 
mour's   feelings,   as  she  uttered  tlic  fervent    prayer. 


ST.  MUIR.  153 

while  the  tear  of  gratitude  stole  down  her  pallid  cheek, 
furrowed  by  many  a  sorrow  ;  and  how  eloquent  was 
ihat  look,  as  she  poured  forth  her  heartfelt  thanks  to 
the  preserver  of  her  earth's  dearest  treasure. 

Two  months  passed,  ere  Gertrude  was  permitted  to 
visit  her  favorite  haunts,  and  feel. the  influence  of  the 
balmy  air.  A  change  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  her 
dream  of  life,  as  well  as  over  the  face  of  nature.  The 
cold  dreary  winter  had  breathed  its  last  sigh  over  the 
plains,  as  spring,  with  all  its  vernal  beauties,  swept 
lightly  onward,  decking  nature  in  its  rich  and  gaudy 
livery.  The  birds  again  warbled  their  merry  notes, 
as  they  chased  each  other  through  the  leafy  branches 
of  the  trees — the  daisy  and  violet  ventured  to  raise 
their  modest  heads  to  meet  the  gaze  of  the  ardent  sun, 
and  the  zephyrs  caught  the  fragrance  of  their  breath, 
to  laden  the  air  with  their  sweetness.  The  noble  riv- 
er  was  lulled  into  a  limpid  clearness,  reflecting  the 
rays  of  the  golden  sunset  with  the  purple  mountain- 
tops  upon  its  placid  bosom.  Not  a  sound  was  heard 
to  disturb  the  stillness  of  the  departing  day,  but  the 
waves,  as  they  listlessly  broke  over  the  rocks.  Silent- 
ly did  Gertrude  gaze  upon  the  scene — her  heart  was 
too  busy  with  heaven  for  utterance.  There  was  one 
that  stood  by  her  side,  watching  with  deep  feeling  the 
changes  of  her  expressive  countenance.  She  caught 
the  look — it  brought  her  back  to  earth  ! 

Frederic  St.  Muir,  the  preserver  of  Gertrude,  was 
by  birth  a  West  Indian.  Left  at  an  early  age  an  or- 
phan, his  aunt  embarked  with  her  young  charge  for 
Eigland,  there  to  complete  his  education.     With  the 

tt  nderness  of  a  mother,  she  fostered  his  ripL-ninir  years 
G2  ^       ^y 


I5'i  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

— and  ere  she  closed  her  eyes  upon  earthly  scenes, 
she  beheld  the  sterling  qualities  that  distinguished  him 
in  childhood,  strengthen  and  ripen  into  manhood.  The 
death  of  his  kind  relative  caused  a  blank  in  the  exist- 
ence of  Frederic ;  and  with  avidity  he  accepted  an 
invitation  from  a  friend  (his  chum  that  was)  to  visit 
America — with  the  intention,  from  thence,  of  sailing 
to  his  native  Isle. 

With  enthusiasm  he  entered  into  the  novelty  of  ska- 
ting and  sleighing  ;  he  lingered  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  at  the  residence  of  his  friend,  in  preference 
to  visiting,  for  any  length  of  time,  the  crowded  city. 
Another  reason,  and  unknown  to  himself,  held  him 
spell-bound  there  :  twice  he  had  encountered  Gertrude 
during  her  rambles  to  the  parsonage.  The  beaming 
countenance,  the  mirror  of  her  mind — the  silvery  tones 
of  her  voice,  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him.  The 
absence  of  his  friend  prevented  an  introduction  for  the 
present — he  could  only  linger  around  her  favorite 
haunts,  and  endeavor  to  catch  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
as  she  warbled  forth  her  sweet  songs. 

They  now  stood  side  by  side — the  formal  barrier  of 
heartless  ceremony  was  thrown  aside.  She  looked 
upon  Frederic  as  her  friend — her  preserver — one  to 
whom  she  could  pour  out  the  treasures  of  her  pent-up 
mind,  and  find  thought  respond  to  thought.  Ilir  walks 
were  no  longer  solitary — even  poor  Milo  was  forgotten, 
while  listening  to  the  voice  of  her  companion,  as  he 
glowingly  described  scenes  of  enchantment  that  exist- 
ed beyond  her  little  tcorld. 

Thus  passes  many,  many  lialcyon  days  and  weeks, 
ttllliough  l-'rederic   had    never    breathed    the    foiid'sl 


ST.    MUIR.  155 

wishes  of  his  heart,  they  shone  forth  in  every  action 
of  his  life,  the  sparkling  eye,  the  hightened  color  told 
the  tale  that  quivered  upon  his  lip :  Gertrude  was  all 
life,  all  happiness  ;  the  present  was  so  bright,  and  not 
until  Frederic  accompanied  his  friend  to  the  Falls,  and 
Canada,  could  she  believe  how  lonely  the  heart  could 
feel. 

Daily  were  the  Mansfieldsand  Miss  Travers  expect- 
ed at  Woodlawn  ;  expectation  was  on  tip  toe,  eyes  and 
ears  widely  expanded  to  catch  a  glimpse  or  hear  a 
word  respecting  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Mansfield,  (for 
the  very  errors  that  were  daily  censured,  gave  her 
notoriety,)  but  each  succeeding  post  brought  disap- 
pointment to  the  anxious  breast  of  Gertrude,  and  cha- 
grin to  the  gossips  by  the  continued  illness  of  Mrs. 
Mansfield.  At  length  arrived  the  expected  guests ; 
but  oh  how  changed  was  Gertrude's  mother.  The 
contour  of  beauty  was  gone,  although  the  eyes  still 
flashed  with  their  wonted  fire  ;  the  sunken  cheek  and 
pur|  lelip  told  the  sad  tale  how  evanescent  was  the  idol ! 
still,  she  cl  ung  to  life  and  its  delusive  joys.  Reason  told 
her  ihefell  destroyer  had  marked  her  for  his  victim. 
She  dreamed  not  of  his  near  approach. 

Gertrude  flew  from  her  mother's  embrace  to  the 
solitude  of  her  own  room,  there  to  weep  ;  she  felt  that 
soon  she  would  be  an  orphan.  Her  tell-tale  eyes  cal- 
led forth  a  sharp  rebuke  from  I\Iaria,  and  a  bitter 
sarcasm  from  her  mother.  With  a  chill  at  her  heart, 
she  promised  to  have  more  command  of  her  feelings 
for  the  future.  The  daughter  deeply  felt  the  mother's 
indifference ;  her  heart  was  so  formed  for  love  and 
filial  duty.     Three  sorrowful  weeks  passed  to  the  in- 


156  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

mates  of  Woodlawn ;  Mrs.  Mansfield  was  declining 
fast ;  but  still  clinging  to  hope.  The  well  regulated 
mind  of  Mrs.  Leniour  beheld  with  sorrow  the  follies 
of  her  daushter-in-law,  and  the  unbounded  influence 
of  her  companion,  Miss  Tra vers,  over  her  mind.  Tlie 
country,  althougli  in  the  flush  of  summer,  wearied 
them,  and  often  would  ennui  preside  triumphant  with- 
in their  breasts,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  Gertrude, 
who  was  a  stranger  to  such  a  guest.  She  bore  with 
meekness  the  repinings  of  Mrs.  Mansfield,  for  it  w-as 
her  mother  ;  but  she  could  not  comprehend  why,  to 
Maria,  the  hours  should  lag  so  heavily  ;  she  knew 
not  how  untrained  were  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
her  mother's  friend,  that  constant  exciten;ent  was  ne- 
cessary to  beguile  away  the  time.  Precious  moments! 
never  to  be  recalled  from  the  abyss  of  the  jmst  ! 

Onward  flew  time  — Mrs.  ]\Iansfield  daily  increas- 
ing in  weakness  —  Maria  in  aspiring  hopes  —  and 
Gertrude  a  prey  to  the  anguish  of  her  mother's  de- 
termined blindness  to  her  approaching  fate.  Mr. 
Mansfield  had  but  twice  visited  Woodlawn,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  impending  law-suit,  but  upon  tlie  re- 
ceipt of  a  letter  from  Maria,  all  his  fearful  forebodings 
seemed  about  to  be  realized.  All  worldly  considera- 
tions were  forgotten  —  he  hastened  to  soothe  the  sick 
couch  of  his  sullerinji  wife. 

The  day  had  been  unusually  warm  and  sultry;  not 
a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  breath  rippled  tlie  polished  surface 
of  the  river.  Mrs.  Mansfield,  at  her  request,  had 
been  placed  before  the  open  window.  Long  and  ear- 
nestly  did  shu  gaze  upon  the  scene  before  lier,  as  the 
last  ray  of  the  departing  sun  ceased  to  play  tlirougli 


ST.  MUIR.  157 

the  distant  trees  upon  the  mountain  top,  she  turned 
with  a  deep  drawn  sigh  to  her  husband,  and  said  in  a 
feeble  voice,  "  can  it  be  Henry,  that,  lilie  yonder  sun- 
beam, I  shall  disappear  from  this  glorious  scene,  and 
bo  as  nothing  ?  no,  no,  it  cannot  be,  although  this  frame 
is  very  weak  and  strangely  emaciated  of  late,  still, 
the  energies  of  my  mind,  the  power  of  thought,  are 

as Why,  Henry,  you  are  weeping,  why  so  silent? 

speak,  in  mercy  speak  to  me  ;"  the  husband  clasped 
her  to  his  breast,  words  of  hope  he  could  not,  he  dared 
not  utter;  a  cold  shudder  crept  through  her  frame, 
but  like  the  mariner  tossing  upon  the  mighty  deep, 
without  chart  or  compass,  while  a  plank  yet  remains, 
still  clings  to  Hope. 

The  evening  breeze,  as  it  stole  gently  in  at  the 
window  blew  sharply  against  the  sufferer's  frame. 
A  bright  harvest  moon  shed  its  silver  light 
through  the  room ;  exhausted  by  the  conflict  of 
feeling,  Mrs.  Mansfield's  head  drooped  upon  her  hus- 
band's breast,  and  she  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep.  Sc 
still,  and  motionless  sat  the  inmates  of  that  room,  that 
not  a  sound  was  heard,  save  the  heavy  breathing  of 
the  sleeper  —  each  felt  that  the  grim  tyrant  had  point- 
ed the  arrow  —  how  soon  it  would  be  sped  from  the 
bow,  they  knew  not ;  the  ceaseless  ticking  of  the 
watch  warned  them  of  the  flight  of  time.  Still  she 
slept ;  at  length,  uttering  a  faint  cry  of  pain,  she 
awakened  from  a  troubled  di*eam,  she  breathed  with 
difficulty,  the  dew  of  anguish  was  upon  her  brow, 
(that  brow  so  fair,  where  so  oft  reposed  the  brilliant 
gems  ! ! )  her  eyes  wildly  staring  as  if  in  search  of 


158  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

some  invisible  object ;  folding  her  hands,  she  looked 
up  into  her  husband's  face,  and  said 

"  Ilenrv,  I  am  ill  —  we  must  eliango  the  air  —  oh  ! 
to-morrow  —  I  cannot  breathe." —  Pressing  iTer  hands 
tightly  to  her  breast,  she  stared  wildly  around  her, 
and  seemed  unconscious  of  the  words  of  consolation 
breathed  by  her  husband  ;  a  shudd(*r  passed  over  her 
frame,  faintly  she  cried  "can  this  be  death  7  Ah  !  if 
I   had  —  served  —  my    God  —  as    faith  —  fully  as  I 

have  —  the    world Henry,   who  said  that  —  n)y 

mem  —  ory — fails  me  —  yes,  yes,  the  dying  hour — 
brings  that — truth  home — "  exhausted  with  the  elTort 
of  speaking,  she  fainted  ;  in  wild  dismay,  Gertrude 
flew  for  restoratives,  and  again  her  mother  unclosed 
her  eyes  and  gazed  earnestly  upon  her  —  "  my  child, 
my  child  —  forgive  me  —  forget  —  not  this  lesson  — 
God  bless  you  —  pray,  oh  pray  for   me  —  lean  — 

not  —  now I  need   it. Henry,   where  are 

you?  —  Ah — my  husband  —  Oh  iiold  —  me  to  — 
ah  —  heaven —  bless  —  you —  "  she  ceased  to  mur- 
mur, the  clasped  lian^ls,  so  wan  and  pale,  fell  motion- 
less by  iier  side  ;  silently  they  gazed  —  they  dreamed 
not  that  the  spirit  had  left  its  frail  tenement,  so  gently 
—  fearfully  they  awakened  to  the  conviction  that  the 
once  gay,  beautiful  and  admired  l\Irs.  Mansfield  had 
passed  from  their  sight  like  a  bright  tint  upon  a  fleet- 
ing  cloud.  ****** 

The  .shock  occasioned  by  the  death  of  Mrs.  Mans- 
field at  the  mansion  of  Mrs.  Lemour,  subsided  into  a 
deep  melancholy  ;  the  general  stillness  was  only  bro- 
ken by  the  measured  footsteps  of  Mr.  Mansfield,  as  he 
paced  to  and  fro  the  hall.     The  iiusband  mourned  for 


ST.  MUIR.  159 

llie  wife  ;  and  many  wondered,  as  time  brought  no  heal- 
ing on  its  wing.  Maria  viewed  with  dismay  the  in- 
fluence that  survived  the  grave  :  she  was  ever  near  to 
mark  the  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  to  pour  forth  praises  of 
the  departed,  and  so  adroitly  varnish  a  folly,  that,  how- 
ever soothing  the  praise,  a  slight  word  would  call  up 
from  the  well  of  memory,  that  would  wish  to  be  for- 
gotten. Plunged  in  dark  thought,  Mr.  Mansfield  re- 
garded  not  the  speaker.  Not  so  Gertrude  :  she  dislik- 
ed the  manner  in  which  Maria  mentioned  the  name  of 
her  mother,  and  often  was  Gertrude  tempted  to  beg  her 
never  again  to  name  that  parent  in  her  presence.  Mrs. 
Lemour  regarded  closely  her  guest ;  but  not  even  to 
her  grandchild  did  she  hint  her  thoughts. 

As  time  mellowed  the  grief  at  her  mother's  death, 
Gertrude's  thoughts  wandered  from  the  dark  tomb  to 
the  living  world.  The  protracted  absence  of  St.  Muir, 
the  feeling  of  loneliness  that  crept  over  her  spirits, 
awakened  her  to  the  startling  fact,  how  necessary  his 
society  was  to  her  happiness. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  an  August  day.  As  the  sun 
declined,  the  freshening  breeze  swept  from  the  moun- 
tain -tops  the  dreamy  clouds,  and  renovated  the  droop- 
injT  flowers,  which  raised  their  heads  to  catch  a  last 
ray  of  the  sunbeam,  ere  they  breathed  their  fragrant 
sighs  at  its  departure :  the  soft  and  balmy  air,  as  it 
fanned  her  cheek,  wooing  Gertrude  to  visit  again  her 
favorite  haunts  :  how  many  sylvan  bowers  and  scenes 
of  rural  beauty  were  consecrated  within  her  breast  to 
days  of  happiness.  She  wandered  to  the  spot  where 
St.  Muir  had  saved  her  life,  and,  seated  upon  a  mossy 
bank,  thought  chased  thought  like  clouds  upon  a  sun- 


160  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

lit  landscape,  until  Gertrude  with  a  palpitating  heart, 
fancied  that  too  faithful  memory  had  conjured  up  a 
breathing  form.  Could  it  indeed  be  the  object  of  hex 
meditations  bounding  towards  her  —  it  was  no  delusion 
of  the  brain —  Frederick  had  just  returned  from  his 
tour,  and  learning  of  the  bereavement  of  Gertrude,  he 
hastened  forward,  his  feelings  alive  to  the  sorrows  that 
she  had  endured  during  his  absence;  and  when  he 
beheld  her  standing  upon  the  spot  hallowed  by  the 
scene  of  her  preservation,  the  pent  up  feelings  of  his 
heart  broke  forth  ;  and  those  well  remembered  tones 
breathed  in  broken  sentences,  his  love  and  hopes,  and 
when  he  marked  the  mantling  blushes,  and  the  spark- 
ling of  her  down  cast  eyes,  he  felt  assured  that  absence, 
(that  touchstone  to  love,)  had  not  erased  his  image 
from  her  heart.  The  moments  flew  rapidly  on,  each 
had  so  much  to  say,  for  when  two  hearts  yield  to  the 
witchery  of  the  blind  god,  the  burden  of  cares  and 
joys  are  poured  in  the  confiding  breast,  thus  riveting 
more  firmly  the  links  of  love.  The  horizon  mantled 
in  gorgeous  purple  and  gold,  warned  Gertrude  of  the 
fliglit  of  time  ;  slowly  they  retraced  their  footsteps  to 
the  house.  Arriving  at  the  door  of  the  mansion,  St. 
Muir  bade  Gertrude  adieu,  for  with  feelings  of  delica- 
cy, he  wished  not  to  intrude  upon  the  mourners  within. 
When  upon  the  steps,  some  untold  thought,  or  the  re- 
petition of  some  promised  request  had  yet  to  be  utter- 
ed, the  last  word,  farewell  to  be  spoken,  when  the  fig- 
ure of  ?.lr.  Mansfield  darkened  the  door-way  ;  witli  a 
blushing  brow,  Gertrude  named  her  lover,  and  start- 
ed with  amazement  at  the  ashy  lip,  and  wild  staring 
eyes  of  Mr.  Mansfield  ;    lie  heeded  liernof,  hut  seemed 


ST.  MUIR.  161 

lost  in  some  bewildering  maze,  until  recalled  to  him- 
self  by  the  flashing  eye  and  burning  cheek  of  the  ob, 
ject  of  his  severe  scrutiny  ;  at  length,  in  a  low,  se^ 
pulchral  tone  he  cried,  "young  man,who  and  what  are 
)^ou  ?  "  Haughtily  was  the  gaze  returned,  and  St. 
Muir  sternly  answered,  "  this  card,  sir,  will  inform 
you  who  lam,  and  when  we  meet,  what  I  am  ;"  touch- 
ing his  hat  to  Gertrude,  ere  she  could  realise  tlie 
scene,  he  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of" the  twilight. 
Grasping  the  arm  of  the  astonished  girl,  Mr.  Mansfield 
almost  screamed,  "child,  who  is  that  young  man,  and 
where  is  he  from  ?"  Shocked  and  confounded  at  his 
strange  conduct,  Gertrude  could  scarcely  command 
breath  to  recount  with  seeming  calmness  the  events 
of  the  past  few  months,  but  when  she  related  her  pres- 
ervation, his  unwearied  attention  to  herself  and  Mrs. 
Lemour,  the  secret  of  that  guileless  heart  was  easily 
read  by  that  man  of  the  world. 

"Gertrude,  imagine  no  scene  in  life,  where  that 
young  man  will  be  the  actor,  for  it  can  never  be  real- 
ised." 

The  expressive  countenance  of  his  listener  portray- 
ed her  astonishment.     Rallying  her  spirits,  she  replied, 

"As  the  husband  of  my  mother,  I  shall  ever  respect 
you,  sir,  but  Mr.  St.  Muir  saved  my  life ;  too  deep  a 
debt  10  be  easily  thrown  aside  ;  and  unless  proved 
unworthy  of  my  friendship,  will  I  never  withdraw  it." 

"  Have  a  care,  Gertrude,  by  this  foolish  fancy,  this 

childish  dream,  you  will  tighten  the  meshes  woven 

around  you but  I  will  seek  this  young  man,  and 

ere  we  part,  we  will  know  each  other  better." 

He  strode  hastily  over  the  lawn  ;   Gertrude  sprang 
L 


162  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

after  him,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  arrested 
his  footsteps. 

"Oh,  sir ;  if  an  interview  be  necessary,  do  wait 
until  the  wrath  that  so  strangely  governs  you  sub- 
sides." 

Fiercely  he  regarded  her  for  a  moment,  then  throw- 
ing  off  her  hand,  hastened  wildly  onward. 

Almost  stupefied  with  surprise,  Gertrude  entered 
the  house,  and  concisely  related  the  events  of  the  eve- 
ning to  her  grandmother.  When  she  had  finished, 
she  seemed  plunged  in  deep  thought ;  at  length,  turn- 
ing to  her,  said, 

"You  must  be  prepared,  my  child,  to  hear  some 
strange  disclosures.  God  knows  of  wliat  nature  — 
these  sudden  outbreaks  of  the  passions  are  generally 
the  effect  of  a  mind  ill  at  ease." 

While  Mrs.  Lemour  was  speaking,  a  sudden  gust 
of  wind,  accompanied  by  heavy  drops  of  rain,  warn- 
ed them  of  a  coming  storm.  Silently  they  watched 
the  forked  lightning  as  it  leaped  through  the  murky 
sky,  as  the  thunder  echoed  from  mountain  to  mountain, 
although  accustomed  to  witncssthe  fury  of  the  elements 
in  that  mountainous  region,  on  that  night  the  storm  ap- 
peared clothed  in  deeper  majesty. 

As  midnight  approached  and  Mr.  Mansfield  return- 
ed not,  Maria  Travers'  terror  knew  no  bounds  ;  she 
insisted  u|)on  servants  being  sent  in  pursuit  of  him, 
(her  quick  ear  had  made  her  acquainted  with  the  fore- 
going  scene,)  but  Mrs.  Lemour  reminded  lier  that  Mr. 
Mansfield  was  a  man,  with  whose  actions  no  one  pre- 
sumed to  interfere.  The  storm  at  leuirth  abated. 
Gertrude  and  her  grandmother  sougiit  repose,  but  in 


ST.  MUIR.  163 

vain  did  they  court  'tired  nature's  sweet  restorer, 
balmy  sleep ;'  and  the  grey  light  of  another  day, 
dawned  upon  their  weary  vigils. 

There  was  one  within  that  dwelling  who  laid  her 
head  upon  her  pillow,  but  not  to  rest,  as  the  workings 
of  whose  brain  kept  pace  with  the  flight  of  time  ;  in 
one  brief  moment,  she  saw  a  deep  scheme,  the  plot- 
tings  of  many  months  about  to  be  annihilated;  a  mys- 
tery involved  the  events  of  the  evening,  fathom  them 
she  would. 

Mr.  Mansfield  hurried  onward  as  if  pursued  by  his 
evil  genius  ;  he  heeded  not  the  roughness  of  the  path, 
nor  the  light  flashes  of  the  lightning  that  for  a  mo- 
ment illumined  his  footsteps.  At  length  the  bowlings 
of  the  blast,  the  rushing  of  the  dark  waters  mingling 
with  the  thunder's  roar,  arrested  his  attention.  He 
hesitated  — turned  to  retrace  his  foot  steps,  but  seemed 
irresolute. 

"  I  will  meet  him  or  die  in  the  attempt  —  a  fitting 
night  for  such  an  encounter." 

He  turned  and  sped  on,  springing  from  rock  to  rock 
as  if  the  fires  that  flashed  from  his  eyes,  lighted  his 
way.  The  sound  of  voices  met  his  ear,  he  started, 
the  object  of  his  search  was  close  upon  him,  but  before 
he  could  speak,  a  gleam  of  pale  silvery  light,  a  crash- 
ing sound,  followed  by  a  tremendous  burst  of  thunder, 
and  a  noble  old  oak  was  prostrated  across  his  path. 
Recovering  from  the  stunning  effects  of  the  lightning, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  blazing  pile  before  him,  he 
beheld  by  his  side,  St.  Muir. 

A  deathly  pallor  overspread  the  features  of  Mr. 
Mansfield,  he  trembled  from  some  internal  emotion, 


164  THE    LATJKEL    "WREATH. 

his  distracting   thoughts   were   recalled  by  the  voice 
of  St.  Muir. 

"  Well  met,  sir,  you  are  prepared,  I  presume,  for 
an  explanation  of  this  unaccountable  conduct." 

"Young  man,"  answered  Mr.  Mansfield,  in  a  voice 
of  such  deep  anguish,  that  it  arrested  the  attention  of 
his  listener,  "  answer  calmly  and  dispassionately ; 
much,  much  depends  upon  it.  1  wish  not  to  provoke 
your  anger,  far  from  it  —  but  in  God's  name,  tell  me 
your  name  and  birth-place." 

*'  Mr.  Mansfield,  some  mysterious  influence  governs 
you.  You  dare  not  mean  thus  to  insult  me.  My 
name  is  St.  Muir,  a  native  of  Martinique  ;  and  now, 
sir,  you  will  oblige  me  with  your  reasons  for  these 
questions." 

'*  Your  mother's  name,"  groaned  Mr.  Mansfield. 

"  My  mother's  name,  sir,  was  Inez  Alvord." 

"  It  is  —  it  is  my  son.  Child  of  my  injured  Inez, 
behold  your  wretched  father.', 

"  My  Father  !  impossible.  He  died  ere  I  was  born ; 
was  slain  in  battle." 

"  Ah !  Massa  Harry,  you  dare  ;  ah  !  Massa,  me 
know  you  now,  me  tink  you  bad  man,  you  kill  poor 
Missus,"  answered  a  querulous  voice  from  amid  the 
murky  darkness.  Mr.  Mansfield  started,  looked 
around  with  horror;  that  well  known  voice  conjured 
up  in  one  moment,  from  memory's  waste,  scenes  of 
by-gono,  fleeting  happiness.  Well  did  he  remcmbei 
the  last  time  they  met  his  ear. 

"Jube,  thou  faithful  old  creature,  are  you  still 
Among  the  living  to  bear  witness  to  my  ill-fated  mar- 
riage ?  " 


ST.  MuiR.  16a 

Starting  from  his  posture  of  deep  abstraction,  St. 
Muir  seized  with  convulsive  energy,  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Mansfield  ; 

"  Marriage  !  say  but  that  word  again,  and  let  your 
crimes  be  as  black  as  hell,  I  will  bless  you,  and  owe 
to  you  the  obedience  of  a  son.  Oh  !  how  many  dark 
thoughts  have  this  scene  called  up." 

"  Young  man,  fear  not  that  the  blush  of  shame  will 
ever  mantle  your  cheek  for  your  mother.  Oh  !  that  I 
could  hear  her  pronounce  my  forgiveness— but  may  the 
anguish  of  this  hour  in  some  measure  extirpate  my  of- 
fences." 

"  Fifteen  summers  have  brought  their  blossoms 
upon  my  sainted  mother's  grave  ;  she  died  after' suf- 
ferings of  many  years" 

"  Ah  !  sufferings  of  many  years  ;  yes,  yes  —  I  am 
her  murderer  !  "  almost  shouted  Mr.  Mansfield,  as  lie 
fell  heavily  to  the  ground.  All  was  dark  around  ; 
the  rain  had  ceased,  the  thunder  moaned  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  the  waters  rolled  sullenly  on.  Jube  has- 
tened to  a  habitation  where  a  light  still  glimmered  :  he 
returned  with  assistance  to  aid  in  conveying  Mr.  Mans- 
field to  a  place  of  shelter.  He  had  fallen  into  a  fit, 
from  the  violence  of  his  high  wrought  passions.  As 
the  springs  of  life  gradually  resumed  their  action, 
and  dispelled  the  clouds  that  had  temporarily  obscured 
his  reason,  Mr.  Mansfield's  eyes  wandered  wildly 
around  the  room,  and  when  he  encountered  the  figure 
of  Frederic,  anguish  shook  his  frame. 

"  Com.e  near,"  he  murmured,  "  the  hand  of  an 
avenging  God  is  upon  me  ;  I  have  sinned,  and  am 
now  reaping  the  bitter  fruits.     Send  for  Gertrude,  in 


166  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

her  presence  I  will  unfold  the  dark  pages  of  my  life  ; 
it  is  due  to  the  memory  of  her  departed  mother  —  one 
question  —  it  must  be  asked,  but  I  dread  tlie  answer ; 
when  did  the  gentle  spirit  of  your  mother  take  its 
flight  ? "  Mr.  Mansfield  raised  himself  suddenly 
from  his  pillow,  and  convulsively  grasping  the  bed 
clothes,  gazed  upon  St.  Muir  as  if  his  life  depended 
upon  the  answer. 

"  Sixteen  years,  the  fourteenth  of  August,  a  day 
deeply  engraved  upon  my  heart." 

"My  God,  I  thank  thee."  Mr.  Mansfield  sunk 
back  upon  the  pillow,  at  length  he  added,  "the  six- 
teenth  I  united  myself  to  Gertrude's  mother." 

At  the  name  of  Gertrude,  a  painful  pang  shot  thro' 
tlio  breast  of  St.  Muir;  he  could  not  realize  the  scene, 
he  could  call  up  from  the  depths  of  memory,  a  thous- 
and times,  hearing  his  mother  invoking  his  father's 
spirit,  to  hover  over  her  boy,  and  be  his  guardian  an- 
gel amid  the  perils  of  the  world  ;  he  would  have 
proof —  proof —  ere  he  could  believe. 

If  in  youth  wc  could  pierce  through  the  veil  that 
hides  futurity  from  our  sight,  and  there  read  the  ac- 
tions that  daily  are  destinid  to  corrode  the  after  mo- 
ments of  life,  how  the  footsteps  would  be  staid,  the 
])assions  tempered  that  lead  to  vice.  It  was  evident 
that  Mr.  Mansfield  was  sullering  from  his  exposure  to 
the  inclemency  of  the  weather  on  the  prececding 
night  ;  he  breathed  with  difilculty,  and  burning  fever 
dyed  liis  cheeks  ;  he  appeared  impatient  for  the  arri- 
val  of  Gertrude  and  Mrs.  Lemour ;  ho  would  not  lis- 
ten to  the  advice  of  the  j)hysieian  to  compose  iiis 
mind.     At  length  they    stood    by    his    bed-side :  no 


ST.  MUIR.  167 

words  can  paint  their  astonishment  upon  learning  the 
events  of  the  past  night.  To  Gertrude,  the  fabric  of 
her  happiness  seemed  crushed.  She  avoided  theloolcs 
of  St.  Muir,  for  her  own  heart  told  her  what  he  was 
sufTerinfj.  And  then  the  form  of  her  mother  in  all 
-the  pride  of  beauty  rose  up  to  her  mind  ;  and  she  fell 
that  death  had  kindly  removed  her  from  this  humilia- 
ting scene  ;  she  had  yet  to  learn  that  Mr.  Mansfield's 
hand  was  unshackled  when  he  gave  it  to  his  unsus- 
pecting wife. 

It  was  some  moments  ere  Mr.  Mansfield  could  com- 
pose himself  to  draw  aside  the  veil  that  had  so  long 
hidden  the  past ;  a  brief  silence  reigned  in  the  room ; 
in  that  moment,  years  passed  hurriedly  through  the 
mind,  with  their  pleasures  and  pains,  joys  and  disap- 
pointments ;  a  type  of  existence,  for  when  life  is  fleet- 
ing fast  away,  the  retrospection,  (however  happily  or 
wretchedly  past,)  seems  then  but  a  dream. 

"  The  humiliating  confession  of  my  past  life  is  a 
slight  atonement,  my  children,  for  the  follies  that  have 
dyed  its  pages ;  one  step  from  the  path  of  truth,  how 
insensibly  it  leads  to  a  labyrinth  of  vice  from  which 
the  hand  of  death  alone  can  extricate  us.  Frederic, 
as  memory  conjures  up  the  form  of  your  mother  in 
her  youthful  loveliness  and  confiding  love — strong 
must  have  been  the  love  of  gold  to  have  caused  my 
cruel  desertion.  Your  grandfather  was  descended 
from  a  high  and  honorable  Spanish  family  ;  captiva- 
ted by  the  soft  beauty  of  your  mother,  I  easily  per- 
suaded her  to  elope.  Upon  the  discovery  of  our  mar- 
riage, her  father  upbraided  me  with  my  poverty ;  I 
boasted  of  my  possessions  in  this  country  —  he  defied 


168  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

me  to  produce  proof  of  them,  and  ended  by  calling  me 
a  Hreign  adventurer;  maddened  by  the  taunts,  1  set 
sal  1  for  America,  fully  determined  to  return  and  claim 
m  disconsolate  wife ;  then  was  the  first  link  to  the 
cl  lin  of  vice  rivited.  The  old  friend  of  my  youth  to 
w'  ose  wealth  I  had  looked  as  my  own,  refused  to  give 
m  :  a  shilling,  if  I  did  not  consent  to  give  up  all 
tl'  jughts  of  my  foreign  fancy,  as  he  called  my  love 
ff  r  Inez.  Coward  tliat  I  was  !  for  the  sake  of  his 
vealtli,  I  did  not  dare  to  unfold  the  truth  of  my  marriage, 
but  yielded  to  the  allurements  that  lurked  in  my  path, 
I'ntil  your  mother's  image  grew  fainter  daily  within 
my  breast,  and  conscience  was  lulled  to  rest  for  the 
time.  The  knowledge  that  riches  we^e  within  my 
grasp,  sealed  my  doom,  and  for  their  sake  I  became  a 
villian.  I  have  passed  through  life  envied  by  my  fel- 
low men;  little  did  they  dream  of  the  canker  worm 
within  ;  the  ceaseless  gnawing  of  the  vulture,  con- 
science,  Gertrude,  turn  not  from  me  thus — I  feel 

that  the  liquid  fire  that  is  coursing  through  my  veins 
will  soon  consume  me,  and  ere  I  die,  let  me  have  your 
forgiveness,  for  upon  this  bgd  of  death,  I  assure  you, 
your  mother  was  my  lawful  wife." 

The  pent  up  feelings  of  Gertrude  could  endure  no 
longer;  with  a  shriek,  she  fell  lifeless  beside  the  bed. 

M  r.  Mansfield  ceased  to  speak  ;  it  was  evident  the 
sands  of  life  were  nearly  run  ;  the  physicians  shook 
their  heads,  over  the  fevered  hand,  and  retired  into  an 
adjoining  room  to  consult  the  merits  of  their  respect- 
ive —  horses.  To  soothe  and  endeavor  to  alleviate 
till!  sullerings  of  the  dying  man,  cost  Gertrude  a 
mighty  struggle  ;  to  be  daily  wilii  St.  Miiir,  to  mark 


ST.  MUIE.  .    169 

the  many  traits  in  his  character,  to  admire  and  respect 
and  to  feel  that  a  dark  phantom  had  arisen  between 
her  and  happiness;  the  thought  was  torture. 

Mrs.  Lemour  hovered  like  an  an  angel  of  mercy 
around  the  dying  couch,  whispering  words  of  sweet 
comfort  and  breathing  peace  to  the  troubled  spirit. 
The  wild  and  turbulent  passions  were  lulled  into  re- 
pentance for  the  past,  resignation  for  the  future,  while 
thus  calmly  waiting  the  hour  of  dissolution,  Mr.  Mans- 
field and  those  who  wei'e  sitting  around  his  bed,  were 
startled  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  St.  Muir  (who  had 
been  absent  some  time  from  the  room,)  followed  by 
Jube  bearing  in  his  hands  a  box  ;  before  the  door  clos- 
ed, a  grave  and  venerable  gentleman  entered  and  seat- 
ed himself  by  the  head  of  the  bed. 

"  Frederic,  what  does  this  mean  ? "  cried  Mr. 
Mansfield,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"  My  dear  sir,  compose  yourself,  and  for  my  sake 
listen  to  what  this  gentleman  has  to  say.  Oh !  that 
the  spirit  may  be  permitted  to  remain  a  little  longer," 
cried  St.  Muir,  as  he  marked  Mr.  Mansfield's  pale  and 
quivering  lip. 

With  a  solemn  air,  the  gentleman  unlocked  the  box 
borne  in  by  Jube,  and  unclasping  a  casket  approach- 
ed the  couch. 

"Owing  to  a  similarity  of  names  and  a  conscience 
ill  at  ease,  a  painful  mistake  has  occured  ;  behold  the 
features  of  Inez  Alvord,  the  mother  of  Mr.  St.  Muir,  the 
niece  of  Inez  Alvord,  your  first  wife — nay,  be  com- 
posed, my  dear  sir,  and  hear  me  through  ;  do  not  in- 
terrupt me  with  this  burst  of  feeling,  every  moment 
is  precious  —  Don the  father  of  your^r^f  wife, 


170  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

had  three  children,  two  daughters  and  a  son.  Alphon- 
so  was  a  twin  brother  of  your  wife,  Inez  ;  he  married 
when  ycung,  against  his  father's  will.  He  never  for- 
gave his  son,  but  banished  him  from  the  paternal  roof 
forever.  His  name  was  forbidden  ever  to  be  named 
within  the  family  circle.  He  died,  leaving  an  only 
child,  a  daughter,  named  after  the  sister  bo  much  be- 
loved ;  the  little  Inez  was  soon  an  orphan.  She  was 
destined  to  be  a  nun,  but  at  an  early  age  she  ran  away 
from  the  convent,  and  married  a  French  officer,  Capt. 
St.  Muir,  who,  a  few  months  after,  was  killed  in  battle. 

Friendless  and  alone,  she  determined  to  seek  out  her 
grandfather,  and  claim  a  shelter  for  her  that  he  had 
refused  her  parents.  She  arrived  when  his  heart  was 
softened  by  the  loss  of  his  darling,  his  dear  Inez, 
who  having  lingered  a  few  years  among  them,  sank 
gently  to  sleep."  The  old  gentleman's  voice  failed 
for  a  moment.  Mr.  Mansfield  became  fearfully  agi- 
tated; restoratives  being  administered,  he  motioned 
the  gentleman  to  proceed. 

Mrs.  St.  Muir  was  received  with  open  arms  by  the 
bereaved  old  man,  and  from  that  moment  she  seemed 
to  supply  the  place  of  her  unfortunate  aunt,  and,  by 

command  of  Don ,  was  always  called  Inez  Al- 

vord.  She  did  not  live  many  years  after  her  taking 
up  her  abode  there  ;  the  thought  that  all  Iier  trials 
and  sorrows  were  owing  to  her  breaking  her  conven- 
tual vows,  corroded  her  existence.  She  died,  and  left 
this  her  boy  to  the  care  of  her  aunt,  wlio  fuitlifully 
performed  her  duty  to  her  young  ciuirge  ;  and  wlien 
he  arrived  at  the  proper  age,  carried  him  to  England 
tliere  to    finisli  his  education.      Upon   her  death,  she 


ST.  MUIR.  171 

made  him  her  heir,  and  appointed  me,  an  old  and  tried 
friend  to  the  family,  her  executor.  Mr.  St.  Muir 
informed  me  of  his  arrival  in  America,  and  having 
business  of  importance,  I  set  sail  for  New  York,  and 
landed,  thank  Heaven,  in  time  to  set  aright  this  start- 
ling mistake.  I  now  place  in  your  hands  these  silent 
images  of  the  dead."  He  ceased  to  speak  ;  not  a 
sound  broke  the  stillness  ;  Mr.  Mansfield  gazed  with 
dim  vision  upon  the  miniature  of  Frederic's  mother. 
At  lengtli  he  said, 

"Frederic,  come  here,  deceive  not  a  dying  man; 
by  every  hope  of  happiness,  answer  me,  is  this  your 
mother's  likeness." 

Frederic  knelt  at  the  bedside,  and  as  his  eye  caught 
sight  of  the  features,  with  an  emotion  impossible  to 
cont)-ol,  exclaimed,  "  my  mother,  my  beloved  moth- 
er!  "  and  pressed  the  picture  to  his  lips.  This  out- 
break of  filial  love  struck  conviction  to  each  heart. 

"  Strange,"  murmured  Mr.  Mansfield,  "  and  so  like 
my  sainted  Inez  ;  it  was  that  resemblance  that  struck 
such  horror  through  my  breast  when  we  met." 

"  His  mother  resembled  her  aunt,  and  likewise  the 
son  ;  a  strong  family  likeness  could  be  traced  through- 
out every  branch." 

"And  I  never  have  heard  of  the  brother's  exist- 
ence." 

"  Your  stay  was  but  a  short  one,  my  dear  sir,  and 
other  thoughts  at  that  time  occupied  the  donna  Inez* 
mind." 

"  Ah !  I  remember  her  saying  to  me,  'my  father 
never  forgives,  I  shall  be  cast  off  forever  ;'  but  she 


172  THE    LAUEEL    WREATH. 

braved  his  anger   for  my  love."       Mr.  Mansfield 
groaned  aloud. 

"  And  Jube,  too,"  he  cried,  starting  up  from  the 
pillows,  "  he  led  me  to  think  I  was  right  in  my  convic- 
tion, that  Frederic  was  my  son." 

"  No,  no,  massa ;  I  no  say  es,  but  I  no  say  no,  no 
harm  done  ,  if  massa  Harry  tought  massa  Freddy  his 
son,  he  gib  im  gould." 

"  He  shall  have  it  all,  all,  for  his  resemblance  to 
my  wronged  wife,"  cried  Mr.  Mansfield,  and  with  a 
sudden  energy,  he  continued,  "hand  me  her  miniature, 
while  life  remains,  let  me  gaze  upon  those  soft  feat- 
ures. With  a  wild  burst  of  passion,  he' cried,  "for- 
give me,oh  forgive,  Inez,"  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  in- 
sensible ivory.  It  fell  from  his  grasp  —  the  hands 
parted  over  the  coverlid,  and  St.  Muir  received  the 
lifeless  form  of  Mr.  Mansfield  in  his  arms  ;  all  was 
stilled  within  —  hushed  forever. 

The  ensuing  winter  the  scene  was  changed  from 
the  quiet  mansion  of  Mrs.  Lemour,  and  the  deep  se- 
clusion of  the  country  to  a  large  house  in  the  gay  me- 
tropolis. Twelve  months  had  passed  since  the  death 
of  Mr.  Mansfield  ;  Maria  Travcrs  had  returned  to  licr 
cheerless  home,  with  the  natural  petulance  of  her  • 
temper  rendered  still  more  irritable,  by  the  recent  de- 
struction of  her  schemes.  Her  poor  fatlaM- beheld  witli 
sorrow  the  change,  and  sighed  (when  too  late)  at  tlie 
efiectsof  his  blind  love — she  passed  througli  a  stormy 
life,  unloving  and  unloved. 

Frederick  Si.  Muir  iiad  returned  to  his  native  Isle, 
to  take  possession  of  the  estate  left  Iiim  by  his  aunt. 
Mrs,  Leinour  sacrificed  the   love  of  retirement,  and 


ST.  MUIR.  173 

established  herself  in  the  city  for  the  winter.  Ger- 
trude was  soon  surrounded  by  friends,  very  many 
who  professed  the  most  ardent  friendship  for  the  young 
novice,  and  were  profuse  in  their  offers  to  aid  her,  in 
spending  her  money  and  to  kill  time.  Gertrude 
was  amused  for  a  while  with  the  new  scene  to 
which  she  was  introduced ;  she  moved  through  the  ma- 
zy dance  with  a  light  and  airy  grace  ;  but  the  thought- 
ful brow  convinced  many  that  her  thoughts  were  far 
away  ;  and  it  was  apparent  that  the  buzz  of  admira- 
tion which  followed  her,  fell  upon  unconscious  ears. 
Many  bowed  to  the  influence  of  her  beauty ;  but  in 
vain  did  they  offer  their  hearts  at  its  shrine  :  not  for 
one  moment,  amid  the  glittering  and  attractive  throng 
that  surrounded  her,  were  her  thoughts  untrue  to  the 
impulse  of  her  heart ;  but 

"  Time  the  impression  stronger  made, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear." 


As  twilight  drew  its  gray  mantle  over  the  glowing 
sky,  by  the  bright  light  of  a  cheerful  fire,  might  be 
seen  two  figures,  seated  upon  a  couch,  drawn  up  with- 
in its  influence.  They  regarded  not  the  flight  of  time, 
so  intent  were  they  with  their  own  feelings.  The 
young  girl  sat  with  her  arm  resting  upon  the  side  of 
the  sofa,  while  her  hand  pushed  aside  the  luxuriant 
curls  that  clustered  over  her  brow,  and  partly  reveal- 
ed the  sofl  expression  of  her  gaze,  as  she  bent  her  eyes 
upon  the  figure  at  her  side,  who  was  addressing  her 
with  great  earnestness. 


174  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

*'  That  little  word,  dear  Gertrude,  repays  me  for  all 
the  past — to  find  you  still  so  beautiful,  and  so  confiding 
in  your  lover's  truth." 

"Never  for  an  instant  did  I  doubt  it,  dear  Frederic, 
— during  nearly  twelve  tedious  months,  my  only  so- 
lace for  your  absence  was  the  memory  of  those  vows 
—oft  would  I  retire  from  the  busy  world  to  con  over 
each  look  and  word." 

"  May  it  ever  be  thus,  sweet  love ;  and  as  years 
pass  over  us,  may  our  dream  of  bliss  be  found  in  the 
realities  of  an  enduring  affection." 

"  Ah  !  that  the  dreary  winter  would  only  take  wing 
— that  we  could  once  more  visit  our  favorite  haunts ; 
and  a  beautiful  bower  will  I  erect  on  tlie  site  of  our 
first  meeting,  Frederic.  And  if  ever  chilling  cloud 
should  pass  over  your  brow,  I  will  lead  you  within  it« 
fragrant  shade,  and  remind  you  of  that  hour." 

:|c         *         %  *         4:  *  :|c 

The  merry  peal  of  the  bells,  the  pawing  of  the  im- 
patient  steeds,  the  crowd  of  gossips  around  the  church, 
announced  a  wedding.  After  a  brief  space,  the  blush, 
ing  bride,  with  a  train  of  friends  and  attendants,  issu- 
ed from  beneath  the  portals  of  the  sacred  edifice. 

"Well,"  cried  Mrs.  Pry,  "so  it's  all  ended  in  a 
wedding,  after  all." 

"  And  a  handsome  bride  she  makes — only  she  is 
dressed  so  very  plain." 

"  Bless  us,  our  Polly  dresses  dashier  every  Sunday." 

"  Well,  who  can  look  at  a  dress,  when  such  a  beau- 
tiful man  is  at  her  side  ?" 

"Dressed  plain  or  gay,  Mrs.  St.  Muir  looks  .vo  hap- 
py— I  would  not  wonder  if  she  married  for  love,  so 


ST.  Muia.  175 

fashionable  as  she  is,  too  ;  and  he  so  rich,  too."     The 
last  speaker  was  a  sentimental  young  iady  ! 

As  the  bridal  party  returned  from  the  church,  and 
Gertrude  caught  a  glimpse  of  Woodlawn  through  the 
opening  of  those  venerable  trees,  she  f<^rvently  hoped 
that  it  might  be  her  fate,  with  the  companion  she  had 
chosen  for  life,  ever  to  dwell  amid  their  sy  Ivan  shades. 


176  THE    LAITKEL   WKEATH, 


THE    MOTHER 

FROM   THE   GERMAN    OF   JACOBI. 
BT  MRS.  ANNE  E.  KENORICK 

To  her  little  earthly  treasure 

Mother  truth  and  mother  love, 
Life  impart,  and  every  pleasure, 

Teaching  now  around,  above. 
To  the  blue-arched  heavens  yonder, 

Its  first  feeble  glance  to  wander. 

Love  and  truth,  that  never  weary. 
Guard  us  on  her  pillowing  breast. 

Be  the  morning  e'er  so  dreary, 
Joyful  there  we  wake  from  rest ; 

Hear,  amid  the  thunder's  breaking, 
Mother  tones  to  bless  our  wakinjr. 

And  illum'd  with  Angel-splendor, 
Now  the  silent  chamber  glows, 

As  the  moon-beams  pure  and  tender 
On  tlie  mother's  brow  repose, 

Softened  is  night's  fearful  sadness, 
By  her  quiet  kiss  of  gladness. 

On  this  earthly  ball  a  stranger, 
Her  fond  breast  his  only  home  ; 

On  her  lip  the  infant  ranger 

Hangs  'till  youth's  wild  hours  arc  come ; 


THE    MOTHER.  177 

Is  he  praying,  hoping,  chiding, 
Still  the  mother's  hand  is  guiding. 

She  who  hush'd  desire's  soft  waking, 

She  who  ope'd  each  fount  of  joy. 
Now  with  tears  the  staff  is  taking 

For  her  wild  and  wandering  boy  ; 
Trembling  with  a  heart  all  broken, 

She  the  last  farewell  has  spoken, 

Ah,  that  farewell,  many  a  morrow. 
Sways  his  soul  with  magic  power, 

While  she  wanders  full  of  sorrow. 
Lonely  in  the  twilight  hour, 

Gazes  in  the  distance  dim. 
Asks  the  golden  stars  for  him. 

Tho'  the  youth,  pursuing  pleasures. 

Eager  seeks  each  new  delight^ 
Thoughtless  of  sweet  childhood's  treasures, 

Still  hope's  mild  and  rosy  light 
On  the  mother's  heart  reposes, 

His  returning  form  discloses. 

Empty  vision !  disappearing 

Like  the  rose's  changing  hues, 
When  its  leaves  the  wind  careering 

O'er  the  lake,  dissevered,  strews. 
Death's  deep  shades  are  gathering  o'er  her ; 

Haste  thee,  youth,  and  stand  before  her: 

That  her  dying  lips  may  bless  thee, 

That  thy  mother's  tender  arm, 
M  H2 


178  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

Fondly  to  her  heart  may  press  thee, 
To  her  heart  with  love  so  warm, 

On  her  child's  fond  breast  reposing, 
While  the  last  sad  scene  is  closing. 

Ah,  too  late  !   Death's  icy  fingers 

Those  true  hands  have  clasp'd  for  aye ; 

In  that  breast  no  feeling  lingers : 

Haste,  thee,  youth,  while  yet  you  may, 

Seek  her  grave,  the  turf  'twill  lighten, 
'Twill  her  tomb's  deep  darkness  brighten 

Mute  behold  her  seat  forsaken. 
Let  the  hearth  she  lov'd  so  well 

Memory's  holiest  tears  awaken 
In  its  deepest  chambers  dwell ; 

O'er  its  flame  now  faintly  glowing, 
Let  thy  thanks  and  tears  be  flowing. 

And  if  e'er  thy  faith  should  waver, 
As  thou  view'st  man's  treacherous  art, 

On  his  brow,  but  smiles  and  favor. 
Hate  and  envy  in  his  heart : 

Tliink  what  bonds  of  sure  believing, 
Mother  truth  is  round  us  weaving. 

She  o'er  every  cradle  bending. 
Lulls  with  song,  her  infant  child. 

With  whoso  soul  hel  image  blending, 
Stuiii]>s  for  aye  its  features  mild, 

Hence  it  Ix-uts  all  warm  to  meet  us, 
llcnou  its  brother-hands  still  greet  us. 


THE    MOTHER.  J  79 

He  who  bids  the  flowret  flourish 

Lowly  in  the  quiet  grove  ; 
He  who  does  the  cedar  nourish, 

He  must  fiud  his  bliss  in  love  ; 
Would  he  elisC  joy  s  rapturous  heaven  ' 

To  the  mother's  heart  have  given  ? 


180  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 


IMMORTALITY 


BT    REV.    WM.    WHITTAKEB 


"I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears,  this  truth  —  thou  liv'st  forever!" 

Of  all  the  subjects  within  the  wide  range  of  human 
investigation,  there  is  none  which  can  be  presented  for 
the  consideration  of  rational  and  accountable  beings, 
so  important,  or  so  intimately  connected  with  their 
present  and  eternal  well-being,  as  .the  doctrine  of  a 
future  state,  and  the  evidences  by  which  it  is  sustained. 

Intimations  of  this  delightful  truth  had  been  com- 
municated to  the  ancient  Israelites  through  the  medi- 
um of  types  and  figures,  and  was  shadowed  forth  by 
the  milk  and  honey,  and  temporary  possession  of  the 
land  of  Canaan.  *- 

In  process  of  tiine,  this  doctrine  became  corrupted 
and  obscured  by  the  fictions  and  fables  of  the  Poets  ; 
yet  it  never  ceased  to  e.xert  a  powerful  and  a  salutary 
influence  over  tlic  liearts  and  lives  of  those  who  had 
embraced  its  cheering  truths. 

It  might  be  both  interesting  and  profitable  to  enquire 
how  far  the  most  illustrious  heathen  writers  carried 
their  rcsoarches  on  this  vast  and  glorious  theme,  cro 
tlic  rtcrnal  Son  of  God  poured  down  upon  it  the  full 
rudiunco  and  splendor  of  his  own  marvelous  light. 


IMMORTALITY.  181 

Suffice  it  to  say  they  considered  it  as  a  matter  of 
curious  speculation,  —  a  subject  for  the  display  of  wit 
and  learning,  and  metaphysical  subtlety,  a  theme  for 
the  intellect,  rather  than  the  heart. 

"They  reasoned  high, 
But  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost." 

If  we  examine  the  writings  of  a  Socrates,  or  Plato., 
a  Cicero  or  a  Seneca,  we  shall  be  struck  with  the  many 
bright  and  beautiful  conjectui-es  with  which  they  are 
adorned,  but  they  want  the  solidity,  the  durability,  and 
the  glorious  certainty  of  divine  truth. 

I.  Immortality  may  be  proved  from  the  nature  of 
the  soul. 

"The  thinking  soul 
Cannot  terrestrial  or  material  be, 
But  claims  by  nature,  immortality." 

By  the  soul,  we  mean  the  immaterial  principle 
which  finds  a  lodgment  in  every  breast, — we  mean  the 
conscious-thinking  faculty,  distinct  from  the  body, 
which  is  indestructible  in  its  essence,  and  over  which, 
dissolution  has  no  power. 

The  soul  is  a  ray  of  light,  from  the  "father  of 
lights,"  a  beam  of  intelligence  and  glory,  emanating 
from  the  infinite  and  eternal  mind,  mighty  in  its  sus- 
ceptibilities, and  boundless  in  its  desires. 

"A  drop  dissevered  from  the  shoreless  sea, 
A  moment  parted  from  eternity." 

Plato  has  said,  "  there  is  an  inward  as  well  as 
outward  man,  the  latter  we  may  discern  with  our 


182  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

corporeal  eyes,  which  retains  its  form  after  death,  as 
an  organ  after  the  musician  ceases  to  touch  it,  the  for- 
mer  is  the  soul,  which,  though  united  to  the  body, 
makes  use  of  it  only  as  a  vehicle." 

The  precept  of  Apollo,  says  Cicero,  which  teaches 
that  every  one  should  know  himself,  docs  not  teach,  as 
I  conceive,  that  we  should  be  acquainted  with  our  own 
members,  our  stature,  or  our  form. 

The  body  does  not  constitute  the  man ;  nor  do  I, 
wliile  saying  this  to  thee,  say  it  to  thy  body. 

When,  therefore,  he  says  know  thyself,  he  says  know 
thy  soul ;  for  tlie  body  is,  as  it  were,  the  vessel  or  re- 
ceptacle of  thy  soul ;  whatever  is  done  by  thy  soul, 
that  is  done  by  thyself. 

Many  arguments  might  be  adduced  to  prove  that 
the  soul  of  man  is  an  immaterial  substance,  not  the 
result  of  physical  organization,  but  a  conscious  spirit, 
distinguislied  by  properties,  and  capable  of  operations 
totally  and  radically  diirerent  from  those  of  the  body. 

That  the  soul  is,  in  its  own  nature,  spiritual,  uncom- 
pounded,  and  indivisible,  is  clearly  evident  from  all  its 
perceptions  and  operations. 

It  is  capable  of  abstract  notions,  mathematical  and 
metapliysical  conceptions ;  it  can  take  in  ideas  of 
tilings  spiritual  and  divine,  which  no  material  being 
can  ever  do. 

It  is  true  that  the  connection  between  body  and  soul 
is  so  intimate  and  tlieir  sympathies  so  tender,  that  in 
most  j)hysical  and  moral  diseases,  the  influence  is  re- 
ciprocal and  inseparable,  yet  there  are  cases  in  whicii 
the  material  frame  languishes  and  decays,  vmtil  vitali- 
ty bccoiiles  extinct,  while  the  spirit  within  retains  its 


I 


IMMORTALITY.  183 

elasticity,  sprightliness,  and  vigor,  and  often  puts  forth 
the  greatest  indications  of  mental  energy  and  lustre 
as  the  lamp  of  life  goes  out. 

The  body  is  confined  to  a  single  spot  of  earth, 
while  the  soul  ranges  through  boundless  regions  of 
immensity. 

While  the  body  is  still  and  motionless,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  profound  sleep,  the  soul  is  active  explor- 
ing heaven  and  earth — its  excursions  cannot  be  cir- 
cumscribed within  the  limits  of  the  universe,  nor  its 
flight  outstripped  by  the  "wings  of  the  morning." 

And  when  this  deathless  principle  shall  break  loose 
from  all  the  entanglements  of  mortality  and  wing  its 
way  to  its  own  native  element,  even  then,  it  shall  be 
forever  distinguished  for  its  own  innate  activity  and 
lofty  aspirations. 

"O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall  fly 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 
Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die." 

II.  Another  argument  in  favor  of  Immortality  may 
be  derived  from  the  interminable  elevation  and  expan- 
sion of  the  intellectual  faculties. 

Who  can  tell  what  brilliant  thoughts  the  mind  is  ca- 
pable of  conceiving,  what  vast  and  mighty  wonders  it 
is  capable  of  achieving  ? 

Contracted  may  be  its  range  and  feeble  its  efforts 
while  confined  within  the  narrow  bounds  of  time,  ow- 
ing to  the  deterioration  and  limited  nature  of  organs, 
through  which  it  operates,  but  when  emancipated  from 
the  thraldom  of  mortality,  it  shall  be  forever  develop- 


184  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

mg  its  wondrous  powers,  and  augmenting  its  intellect- 
ual resources. 

"The  mind  cannot  always  sleep  in  dust, 
Whose  essence  is  ethereal,  they  may  try 

To  darken  and  degrade  it — it  may  rush 
Dimly  awhile,  but  cannot  wholly  die  ; 

And  when  it  wakens,  it  will  send  its  fire 
Intenser  forth  and  higher." 


o 


It  is  the  mind,  the  intellectual  faculty,  the  capacity 
for  endless  improvement  in  knowledge,  that  gives  dig- 
nity and  pre-eminence  to  man,  and  shall  tliis  compli- 
cated piece  of  mechanism  possessed  of  properties  and 
capabilities  so  lofty,  and  striking,  and  wondrous,  fall 
into  ruin  ? 

Shall  mind  with  its  high  and  glorious  hopes,  its 
bright  and  beautiful  imaginings,  its  glory,  and  dignity, 
and  majesty  be  lost  in  the  darkness  and  destruction  of 
the  scpulcher  ? 

This  can  never  be,  for  it  is  a  bright  ray  of  immor- 
tal effulgence,  a  brilliant  star  shedding  its  glorious  ra- 
diance over  the  pathway  of  human  life  and  pointing  to 
the  skies. 

"It  shines  forever ; 
And  like  a  watch  tower  to  the  infidel, 
Shows  there's  a   land  to  come." 

III.  The  ardent  desires  and  longings  after  immor- 
tality, afford  strong  presumptive  evidence  in  its  favor. 

It  is  not  in  tiic  nature  of  man  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
things  of  time  and  sense,  he  is  constantly  looking  for- 
ward to  new  scones  of  interest  and  enjoyments. 


IMMORTAXITY.  185 

When  we  look  abroad  over  the  face  of  human  soci- 
ety and  view  the  ardent  gaspings  after  happiness  and 
hear  the  anxious  inquiry  'who  will  show  us  any  good;' 
when  we  behold  the  conflicting  schemes  which  are  in 
operation  for  its  attainment,  and  the  anarchy  and  con- 
fusion that  exist  in  consequence  of  the  opposition  of 
those  schemes,  we  are  constrained  to  acknowledge  that 
felicity,  perfect  and  unalloyed,  is  not  a  thing  of'  earth. 

Contemplate  man,  under  every  aspect,  and  in  eve- 
ry situation  of  human  life,  whether  reposing  on  the 
summit  of  affluence,  or  toiling  in  the  vale  of  poverty, 
and  you  will  find  him  dissatisfied  with  the  present, 
sickened  with  the  past,  anxious  for  the  future. 

This  dissatisfaction  with  all  present  enjoyments,  and 
this  longing  after  some  future  good,  is  a  plain  indica- 
tion that  beyond  this  visionary  scene  there  is  a  world 
of  fadeless  bliss,  where  the  restless  desires  of  the  hu- 
man heart  shall  be  fully  met,  and  where  the  immortal 
spirits  shall  drink  the  living  waters  of  bliss,  without 
measure,  and  without  end. 

"Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast, 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest,         .^ 
The  soul  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come." 

Man  lives  upon  the  future,  and  it  is  not  in  the  pow- 
er of  all  earthly  things  combined,  to  repress  the  ardor 
of  his  desire,  or  to  annihilate  his  delicious  dreams  of 
hope. 

But  why  sucn  delightful  anticipations,  such  ardent 
longings  after  immortality  ? 


186  THE    LAUREL    WKEATH. 

"'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us"  and  in  silent 
yet  impressive  eloquence  proclaims  that  we  are  des- 
tined for  another,  and  a  nobler  state  of  being. 

What  shall  be  otTcred  as  a  substitute  for  immortality? 

Shall  annihilation —  the  blackness  of  darkness  for- 
ever, an  eternal  sleep  from  which  we  shall  never 
awake,  an  everlasting  forgctfulness  of  those  we  love  ? 

Oh,  to  die,  and  to  have  nothing  before  us  but  night, 
impenetrable — moonless — endless  night ! 

To  die,  and  bid  farewell  forever  to  all  the  loved  and 
lost  of  earth — how  agonizing  the  thought,  how  painful 
the  reflection,  how  repugnant  to  all  the  fmer  feelings 
and  tender  sensibilities  of  the  human  heart! 

IV.  The  analogy  of  nature  tends  to  illustrate  and 
confirm  the  doctrine  of  immortality. 

In  the  vegetable  world,  we  see  organized  matter 
continually  clianging  its  form,  undergoing  various  mod- 
ifications, yet  never  totally  destroyed  or  annihilated. 

The  {Train  of  wheat  which  is  cast  into  tiie  besom  of 
the  earth,  "  is  not  quickened  except  it  die." 

It  becomes  decomposed,  and  after  having  passed 
through  a  mysterious  process  beneath  the  surface  of 
the  ground,  it  springs  u|),  a  beautiful,  vigorous  and 
healthy  plant. 

The  sluggish  worm,  which  undergoes  a  species  of 
death,  and  buries  itself  in  a  tomb  of  its  own  making, 
springs  again  to  life,  a  gay  and  active  creature,  more 
biautiful  in  appearance,  with  new  appetites  and  pow- 
ers. 

"Why,  tlicn,  should  it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible 
that  God  should  raise  the  dead  ?" 

In  llie  uinler  of  ihe  year  "the  grass  witheivth,  thf 


IMMORTALITY.  187 

flower  fadeth,"  and  over  the  whole  vegetable  kingdom 
desolation  and  death  seem  to  reign  triumphant." 

Yet  nothing  perishes  and  dies  totally  and  forever. 

Nature  is  "not  dead,  but  sleepeth,"  and  when  the 
cold  blasts  of  winter  are  over,  the  genial  spring  shall 
infuse  fresli  life  and  vigour  into  her  exhausted  powers, 
and  clothe  the  fields  and  gardens  with  their  wonted  ver- 
dure and  beauty. 

Why  then,  may  not  we  indulge  the  soothing  hope 
that  at  some  future  period  a  "renovating  spring  may 
visit  the  mouldering  urn,  and  shed  its  genial  and  life- 
giving  influences  over  the  faded  blossoms  of  earth." 

"Shall  I  be  left  abandoned  in  the  dust, 
AVhen  fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flowers  revive  ? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 
Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 
No ;  Heaven's  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive^ 
And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of  love's  triumphant 
reign." 

When  we  are  called  to  follow  to  the  silent  grave- 
yard the  dear  objects  of  our  affections,  or  when  we 
re-visit  the  hallowed  spot,  where  lie  their  mouldering 
ashes,  how  sweet  and  soothing  to  the  wounded  spirit 
to  feel  that  they  are  "not  lost,  but  gone  before,"  to  the 
land  of  light,  and  glory,  and  cloudless  day. 

Oh,  tell  me  that  darkness  and  death  shall  not  tri- 
umph foi'ever  over  all  that  is  bright  and  beautiful  in 
the  creation  of  God,  that  blank  and  cheerless  oblivion 
shall  not  close  the  dreary  portals  of  the  sepulcher, 


188  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

and  shroud  the  fairest  forms  of  human   beauty  and 
loveliness  in  eternal  night. 

Tell  me  that  the  victory  of  the  grave  shall  not  be 
forever,  nor  its  reign  perpetual,  that  there  is  a  mighty 
and  mysterious  being  who  can  "destroy  death,  and 
him  that  hath  the  power  of  death,"  and  emancipate 
the  immortal  spirit  from  the  corruption  and  dishonor 
of  the  tomb,  tell  me  that  the  friend  I  have  loved  and 
lost  shall  be  restored  to  me  again,  arrayed  in  all  the 
splendor  of  an  incorruptible  and  glorious  body  ;  and 
that  I  shall  see  it  with  my  own  eyes,  and  speak  to 
it  with  my  own  lips,  and  walk  along  with  it  by  the 
banks  of  that  river  which  flows  through  the  midst  ot 
the  Paradise  of  God,  tell  me  this,  and  you  infuse  new 
joy  into  my  broken  heart,  and  new  life  and  vigor  into 
my  worn  and  wearied  spirit. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time — 

Beyond  the  reign  of  death — 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath  ; 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  and  expire." 


JUDITH.  189 


J  U  D  I  T  H.» 

BY  THE  REV.  CHARLES  CONSTANTINE  PISE,  D.  D. 

Femine&que  animi  Judith  in  mente  virilis. — Alcimut 

The  blow  is  struck  ; — Assyria's  mighty  Lord, 
A  headless  trunk,  lies  weltering  on  the  sward. 
Judith  hath  triumphed  :  through  the  camp  is  spread 
Vast  consternation,  by  one  Hebrew  maid. 
Courage  and  counsel,  'mid  the  general  fright, 
Forsake  the  trembling  hosts  which  take  to  flight. 
Scattered  in  wild  confusion,  lo!  they  fill 
The  pathway  of  the  field,  the  fastness  of  the  hill. 

This  scene,  amazed,  the  Sons  of  Israel  view ; 
With  shouts  and  clanging  trumpets  they  pursue  ; 
From  all  the  country,  and  from  every  town, 
Their  chosen  young  men  pour  in  torrents,  down 
Upon  the  Assyrian  ranks,  that  rent  and  riven. 
Before  the  lightning  of  their  swords  are  driven. 

When  to  the  camp,  still  desolately  gay, 
Men  of  Bethulia  bend  their  eager  way. 
Where  priceless  spoils  and  numberless  they  find, 
Left  by  the  Assyrians  in  their  flight,  behind. 

Charmed  by  the  feat  of  Judith,  and  her  fame. 

*  See  the  Book  of  Judith,  15th  and  IGth  chapters. 


190  Tin-:  i,.ai::;li.  wkkath. 

The  H'lsah  Priest  Joacliiin  to  Bctlmlia  came, 

With  all  his  Ancients,  from  Jerusalem  : 

And  as  she  stands  before  the  Priest  and  them. 

All,  in  one  burst  of  simultaneous  praise, 

BlessinjT  the  maiden,  thus  their  voices  raise  : 

"  Thou  art  the  glory  of  Jerusalem, 

The  joy  of  Israel ;  the  purest  gem, 

And  brightest  honor  of  our  race  thou  art ; 

Thou  hast  done  manfully  ;  thy  timid  heart 

Was  nerved  to  courage  ;  God  hath  strengthened  inee, 

For  thou  hast  loved  and  cherished  chastity  : 

None  save  thy  husband  hast  thou  e'er  carest, 

Forever,  therefore,  shall  thy  name  be  blest." 

On  Judith  all  the  treasures,  they  bestow, 
Of  Holifernes,  whom  her  arm  laid  low  ; 
VV^hile  women,  tender  virgins,  and  young  men 
With  harps  and  instruments  rejoice  again. 

The  heroine,  then,  whose  trust  was  not  in  man. 
But  in  the  Lord,  this  canticle  began  : 


"Let  the  timbrels  loudly  ring, 

To  the  Lord  with  cymbals  sing ; 

Tune  a  new  psalm  — his  might  proclaim, 

Extol  and  call  upon  his  name. 

To  the  wars  an  end  he  gave, 

lie  the  people  deigned  to  save: 

In  their  midst  his  camp  he  set, 

When  the  enemy  we  met. 

From  the  northern  mountains  poured 

On  the  field,  the  Assyrian  Lord, 

In  liis  multitudr  of  lorce. 


JUDITH.  191 

Choaking  up  the  torrent's  course, 

Covering  the  valleys  far 

With  his  serried  steeds  of  war, 

Vaunting,  in  resistless  haste, 

With  fire  my  borders  to  lay  waste ; 

In  my  young  men's  blood  to  slake 

Their  thirsty  swords  ;  a  prey  to  take 

My  infants ;  and  my  virgins  fair 

To  bind  as  captives  to  his  car. 

But  the  Lord's  avenging  stroke 

The  boasting  tyrant's  power  hath  broke, 

And  a  feeble  woman's  hand 

Crushed  the  terror  of  the  land. 

No  young  man's  athletic  blow 

Laid  the  proud  Assyrian  low ; 

Nor  did  the  sons  of  Titan  smite, 

Or  giants  huge  against  him  fight ; 

But  a  maid  —  Merari's  child  — 

On  the  foe  destruction  smiled  ; 

By  the  beauty  of  her  face, 

Judith  rescued  Israel's  race  : 

She  laid  the  widow's  weeds  aside. 

And  took  the  robes  of  joy  and  pride; 

Ointment  on  her  cheek  she  shed, 

And  binding  round  her  scented  head 

A  sparkling  crown,  a  garment  new 

Upon  her  graceful  form  she  threw  : 

Her  sandles  sparkled  to  his  eyes. 

Her  beauty  ravished  by  surprise. 

She  grasped  the  sword  with  courage  dread, 

And  severed  from  the  trunk  his  head. 

The  Persians  saw,  and  quaked  with  friaht. 


( 


192  THE  LAUREL  WREATH. 

The  Medes  looked  pale  upon  the  sight, 
And  when  the  doleful  tale  was  told, 
The  camp  of  the  Assyrians  howled  ; 
For  then,  too  late,  the  foemen  knew 
The  sons  of  damsels  pierced  them  through 
Away,  like  children,  they  have  fled, 
Or  on  the  battle-field  lie  dead. 
Then  raise  to  him  whose  mighty  nod 
Scattered  their  armies — raise  to  God 
A  hymn  of  gratitude  and  love  — 
A  new  hymn  to  our  God  above. 
O  Adonai !  whom  we  adore. 
Lord !  great  and  glorious  is  thy  power. 
With  tlice  tlie  foe  that  dares  contend 
Shall  yield  and  perish  in  the  end. 
Let  all  thy  creatures  serve  thee.  Lord! 
For  thou  didst  make  them  with  a  word, 
Thy  potent  voice  all  things  obey  ; 
The  hills  and  waters  own  thy  sway  ; 
Among  the  rocks  thy  power  is  felt- 
Before  tliy  face,  like  wax  they  melt- 
Woe  to  the  nation  that  would  stand 
Against  my  people  !  thy  right  hand 
Will  smite  them,  in  their  proud  array, 
Willi  vengeance,  on  the  judgment  day. 
And  fire  and  worms  thy  wrath  shall  give 
Forever  on  their  flesh  to  live  !  " 

Then  to  Jerusalem,  the  Lord  to  adore, 
In  countless  numbers  did  the  people  pour: 
Fair.Iiidith  brought,  arrayed  in  all  her  cliarms- 
An  ofleringof  llulifunios'  uriiis: 


JUDITH.  193 

Throughout  the  sanctuary  joy  prevailed, 
And  three  months  heard  victorious  Judith  hailed. 
A  festival  the  Hebrews  still  hold  dear, 
And  with  religious  pomp  commemorate  each  year. 
New  York,  1S4.5, 


N 


194  THE    LAUREL   WHEATH. 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS 


BY  REV.  S.  U.  BURCriAKD 


-Domestic  happiness !    Thou  only  bUss 


Of  Paradise  that  hast  survived  tlie  fall !" 

There  is  an  Elysium  for  man.  It  is  not  to  be 
found  in  the  dance  of  pleasure  ;  nor  at  the  shrine  of 
fashion ;  nor  on  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  life  ; 
nor  in  the  eager  race  for  wealth  and  fame.  Disap- 
pointment and  restless  anxiety  mark  the  varied  pur- 
suits of  man — the  pleasures  of  sense  are  momentary 
— the  triumphs  of  ambition  are  short — the  laurels  of 
honor  wither  and  fade — the  crown  of  glory  drops  quick- 
ly from  the  conqueror's  brow,  and  the  music,  that  once 
cheered  him,  falls  dull  and  powerless  upon  his  soul. 
Others  succeed  him  in  the  struggle  for  happiness  ;  but 
they  retire,  weary  uiul  worn.  Hope  may,  for  a  sea- 
son, have  created  images  of  beauty  and  gladness ;  but 
like 

"Th'  illusive  meteors  of  a  lifeless  fire, 
Too  soon  they  kindle,  and  too  soon  expire.' 

Ah!. sad  picture  this  of  human  life!  And  is  it 
true  that  there  arc  no  light  shades  ?  Is  there  no  oasis 
in  the  desert — no  verdant  spot,  to  which  the  eye  of  man 
niuy  look  with  liope — no  Elysium,  whore  all  is  music 


I 


^ 


^ 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS.  195 

to  the  ear,  verdure  to  the  eye,  and  velvet  to  the  foot  ? 
We  shall  be  pointed,  I  know,  to  the  sublime  revelations 
of  the  spirit-world,  and  told  to  listen  to  those  voices 
which  speak  of  "  a  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal 
in  the  heavens."  But  these  are  objects  of  faith,  and 
lie  in  the  dim  and  shadowy  future.  And  the  heart 
naturally  turns  to  earth  and  anxiously  inquires,  whe- 
ther the  kind  Father  has  provided  no  refuge  for  his 
earth-born  children  ?  Whatever  may  be  the  reply 
of  the  cynic  or  skeptic,  we  believe  He  has,  Thefam- 
ihj  circle,  where  love  glows  in  every  heart  and  beams 
in  every  eye,  is  a  sweet,  pure  emblem  of  heaven. — 
And  he  who  has  found  a  trustful,  true-hearted,  loving 
wife,  whom  he  can  truly  call  his  own,  may  exclaim, 
with  the  delighted  philosopher,  "  Eureka  !  eureka  !" 

"  The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love" — 

To  rest,  in  confiding  fondness,  upon  her  bosom — to 
feel  that  her  heart  beats  in  unison  with  his — to  share 
her  joys  and  sorrows — to  listen  to  her  expressions  of 
tenderness,  as  to  the  music  of  an  angel — to  know  that 
he  is  enthroned  in  her  heart's  best  affections :  this  is 
happiness  next  to  the  bliss  of  heaven. 

Erasmus,  an  ancient  writer,  asks,  "  Is  there  any 
friendship,  among  mortals,  comparable  to  that  between 
husband  and  wife  ?  For  the  love  of  you,  she  ceases 
to  value  the  tenderness  of  parents,  brothers,  sisters— 
to  you  alone  she  looks  for  happiness ;  on  you  she^de- 
pends,  and  with  you  she  wishes  to  live  and  to  die."— 


196  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

Are  you  rich  ?  You  have  one  to  share  your  prosper- 
ity  and  double  your  happiness.  Are  you  poor  ?  You 
are  not  left  to  battle  against  the  dark  waves  of  trouble 
alone ;  she  comforts  you  ;  sits  by  your  side  ;  speaks 
of  brighter  days  and  serener  skies ;  waits  upon  you, 
with  all  the  assiduity  and  tenderness  of  woman's  love, 
and  only  wishes  that  she  could  appropriate  to  herself 
the  misfortune  which  gives  you  pain.  Rogers,  the 
poet,  has  done  justice  to  the  pure  devotion  of  a  loving 
wife. 

Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kissed  ofT,  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters,  there  to  be  a  light, 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian  angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasure,  and  his  cares  dividing. 

There  is  truth  as  well  as  poetry  in  these  lines.  It 
would  seem  that  even  the  cold-hearted  Byron  caught 
something  of  the  inspiration  of  love,  when  he  said, 

"  Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  bark,  or  glide  my  prow, 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer  thou  ! 

Tliou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark, 

Tlie  dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  : 

Or  since  that  hope  dcny'd  in  worlds  of  strife. 

Bo  thou  tlie  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life  ! 

The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away. 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  !" 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS.  197 

The  unbought  affections  of  a  generous  and  noble 
wife  are  a  solace  and  a  treasure,  which,  though  scorn- 
ed by  the  treacherous  and  thoughtless,  will  be  appre- 
ciated and  valued  by  the  virtuous  and  the  good.  But 
there  is  another  feature  in  domestic  life  which  adds 
beauty  to  the  scene.  If  there  be  children,  there  will 
be  an  increase  of  mutual  love,  and  consequently  an 
increase  of  happiness. 

A  young  clergyman,  who  had  recently  become  a 
father,  as  he  dandled  the  little  cherub  upon  his  knee, 
remarked,  in  ecstacies,  to  the  writer,  "  O,  brother,  a 
new  class  of  emotions  is  awakened  in  my  heart — a 
new  world  of  bliss  and  beauty  is  mine  !  I  feel  that  I 
am  a  better  and  a  happier  man  than  I  was  before  I 
received  this  precious  gift."  And  the  mild,  dark  eye 
of  his  lovely  wife  brightened,  and  her  pale  cheek  crim- 
soned, as  though  every  feeling  of  her  heart  was  re- 
sponsive to  his. 

The  nursery  has  often  alleviated  the  fatigues  of 
the  bar,  the  Senate  house,  and  the  pulpit.  Statesmen 
and  heroes  have  shut  out  the  acclamations  of  an  ap- 
plauding world,  to  enjoy  the  prattle  of  tlieir  little  ones 
and  partake  the  endearments  of  the  family  circle. — 
They  knew  that  even  their  warmest  admirers,  in  the 
common  relations  and  intercourse  of  life,  were,  in  some 
degree,  actuated  by  interested  motives,  in  displaying 
their  affection — that  many  of  their  followers  applaud- 
ed theni  in  hopes  of  reward.  But  the  attention  paid 
them  at  their  fire-side — the  smiles  which  made  home 
a  scene  of  perpetual  sunshine,  were  the  fruits  of  un- 
dissembled  love.  And  it  is  to  this  hallowed  enclosure 
that  they  have  retreated  from  the  conflicting  interests 


198  THE    LAUREL    WKEATH. 

and  opinions  which  agitate  the  external  world.  Here 
they  have  laid  olTthe  dignity  of  station  to  indulge  in 
the  caresses  of  affection  and  in  the  sports  of  childhood. 
It  is  not  unmanly  thus  to  unbend  oneself  and  become 
a  child  with  children.  Its  tendency  is  to  amend  and 
elevate  the  heart — to  soften  the  rough  asperities  of 
our  nature :  it  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  purest  sources  of 
mirth.  The  great  Author  of  evangelical  religion  has 
taught  us  to  emulate  the  truthful  simplicity  of  the  in- 
fantile age.  He  seems  himself  to  have  been  delishted 
with  children,  and  found  in  them  what  he  in  vain 
sought  among  the  Pharisaical  and  the  proud — uncor- 
rupted  purity  of  heart.  Among  the  great  variety  of 
pictures  which  the  vivid  imagination  of  Homer  lias 
displayed  throughout  the  Iliad,  none  is  more  pleasing 
than  the  family  piece,  which  represents  the  parting  in- 
terview between  Hector  and  Andromache.  It  is  full 
of  inimitable  pathos  and  beauty,  and  deeply  interests 
the  heart  while  it  delights  the  imagination.  Tlie  hero 
ceases  to  be  terrible  that  he  may  become  amiable. — 
We  admire  him,  while  he  stands  completely  armed  in 
the  field  of  battle  ;  but  we  love  him  more  while  he  is 
taking  off  his  helmet  that  he  may  not  frigliten  his  little 
boy  with  its  nodding  plumes.  We  are  refreshed  with 
the  tender  scene  of  domestic  love,  while  all  around 
breathes  rage  and  discord.  We  are  pleased  to  see 
the  arm  which  is  sliortly  to  deal  death  and  destruction 
among  a  host  of  foes,  employed  in  caressing  an  infant 
son  with  the  embraces  of  paternal  love.  A  professed 
critic  would  attribute  the  pleasing  efl'eet  to  contrast; 
but  the  heart  has  declared,  previously  to  the  inquiries 
of  criticism,  tliat  it  is  chiefly  derived  from  the  satisfuc- 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS.  199 

tion  which  we  naturally  take  in  beholding  great  char- 
acters mingling  in  the  scenes  and  sharing  the  sympa- 
thies of  domestic  life. 

Cicero,  with  all  his  patriotism  and  power  of  oratory, 
retired  from  the  public  arena  to  seek  his  elysium  in 
the  expressions  of  conjugal  and  filial  affection ;  and 
lie,  at  one  time,  acknowledged  that  he  received  no  sat- 
isfaction in  any  company  but  that  of  his  wife,  his  little 
daughter,  and,  to  use  his  own  epithet,  his  honied  young 
Cicero. 

Sir  Thomas  More,  who  has  secured  that  pre-emi- 
nence which  men  award  to  the  majesty  of  genius,  has 
left  it  on  record  that  he  devoted  a  great  share  of  his 
time,  from  the  united  motives  of  duty  and  delight,  to 
the  amusement  of  his  children.  But  notwithstanding 
all  this  authority  from  the  Bible,  to  the  sayings  of  the 
philosopher  and  the  poet,  in  favor  of  the  purity  and  per- 
manency of  domestic  pleasures,  to  many  they  unfor- 
tunately appear  insipid,  unmanly,  and  capable  of  sat- 
isfying none  but  the  weak,  the  spiritless,  the  unaspir- 
ing, and  the  effeminate.  There  are  those,  in  these 
days  of  modern  reform,  who  would  gladly  annihilate 
the  marriage  relation,  and  denounce  it  as  an  unneces- 
sary and  an  unauthorized  restraint  upon  the  passions 
of  man.  With  cloven  foot  they  would  enter  the  do- 
mestic sanctuary,  where  all  is  purity  and  love,  and 
where  aflections,  all  warm  and  sensitive,  are  gushing 
forth  in  tenderness,  and  deaf  to  all  their  entreaties, 
would  cruelly  sunder  them  from  the  objects  of  their 
endearment,  like  demons  of  wrath,  who  knew  no  pity, 
heard  no  groans,  und  felt  no  relenting  !  Such  pre- 
tenders to  reform  would  love  to  figure  on  the  theatre 


200  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

of  a  French  revolution,  and  immortalize  themselves 
by  making  the  Bible  a  bonfire,  and  the  world  a  wide 
scene  of  lawless  and  hopeless  abandonment !  We  can 
but  weep  over  their  folly  and  wickedness,  while,  with 
pious  enthusiasm,  we  cling  to  the  sacred  insthution, 
which  made  Eden  a  paradise,  and  is,  indeed,  the  con- 
necting link  between  earth  and  heaven. 

But  it  may  still  be  objected  by  those  who  pretend 
to  have  formed  their  ideas  of  life  from  actual  observa- 
tion, that  domestic  happiness,  however  pleasing  in  de- 
scription, like  many  a  poetic  dream,  is  but  an  alluring 
picture,  designed  by  a  good  heart,  and  painted  in  glow- 
ing colors  by  a  lively  fancy.  They  maintain  that  the 
constant  company,  even  of  those  we  love,  occasions 
an  insipidity — that  insipidity  grows  into  disgust ;  dis- 
gust, long  continued,  sours  the  temper.  Peevislmess 
is  the  natural  consequence — the  domestic  circle  be- 
comes the  scene  of  alienation  and  angry  dispute — and 
love  and  charity,  those  angel  graces  that  nestle  around 
the  family  altar,  take  their  departure.  Mrs.  Caudle 
may  have  witnessed  such  scenes  in  real  life,  and  be- 
hind the  drapery  of  fiction  may  be  concealed  some 
vestiires  of  truth.  But  that  there  are,  here  and  there, 
isolated  instances  of  domestic  misery,  is  no  argument 
that  there  is  no  domestic  happiness.  We  doubt  not 
but  the  young  and  the  thoughtless  often  rush  into  the 
marriage  relations  without  any  affinity  of  thought  and 
feeling,  and  they  reap  the  reward  of  their  indiscretion. 
In  the  forced  alliance,  which  tlie  poet  of  Vciuisium 
mentions,  of  the  serpent  with  the  dove — of  tlie  tigrr 
Willi  the  lamb — there  can  be  no  true  love.  When 
wo  expatiate  on  tiie  happiness  of  the  domestic  group, 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESb.  201 

we  presuppose  that  there  is  a  mutual  blending  of  sym- 
pathies and  hearts.  Pure,  intelligent  love,  is  the  ba- 
sis of  all  real  happiness  in  the  marriage  relations. — 
Neither  wealth,  nor  beauty,  nor  family  distinctions, 
must  be  substituted  for  this. 

"Love  is  a  celestial  harmony 
Of  likely  hearts  compos'd  of  stars  consent. 
Which  join  together  in  sweet  sympathy, 
To  work  each  other's  joy  and  true  content." 

We  conclude  by  saying  that,  to  form,  under  the 
direction  of  prudence,  and  by  the  impulses  of  virtuous 
love,  an  early  conjugal  attachment,  is  one  of  the  best 
securities  of  virtue,  as  well  as  the  surest  means  of  hap- 
piness. The  duties  which  are  imperiously  called  forth 
by  the  relations  of  husband  and  father,  are  of  that 
tender  kind  which  awaken  the  purest  and  sublimest 
emotions.  He  who  beholds  a  confiding  woman  whom 
he  loves,  and  an  helpless  infant,  looking  up  to  him  for 
support,  will  not  easily  be  induced  to  indulge  in  idle- 
ness, folly,  or  crime — he  is  held  by  golden  cords. 
And  thus  it  is  that  many  who,  in  their  individual  or 
unconnected  state,  would  probably  have  spent  a  life 
not  only  useless  to  others,  but  profligate  and  abandoned 
in  itself,  have  risen  to  eminence  and  handed  their 
names,  with  honor,  down  to  posterity,  by  linking  their 
destiny  with  an  amiable,  intelligent,  and  virtuous  wo- 
man. "  Whoso  findeth  a  wife,  findeth  a  good  thing, 
and  obtaineth  favor  of  the  Lord." 

12 


202  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 


OUR  WORLD   IS   FULL  OF    JOY     , 

BY   WM.    OLAND    BOURNE. 

There  are  who  say  this  world  is  drear, 
With  many  a  thorn  upon  its  path, 

That  joy  conceals -the  latent  tear, 
And  every  smile  its  weeping  hath. 

Sad  Prophets  of  the  Cheerless  Heart ! 

They  ne'er  perceive  Life's  gladsome  sniih 
And  when  it  comes,  they  shrink  and  start. 

So  fearful  they  of  Pleasure's  guile. 

If  Life's  a  grave,  why  sit  they  here  ? 

If  Life's  a  pang,  why  court  its  pain  ? 
Why  bring  their  dark  forebodings  near, 

With  Disappointment  in  their  train  ? 

'Tis  well  to  know  this  world  is  not 
The  resting  place  we  look  for  all, — 

We  come — we  go^we  arc  forgot, — 
And  careless  footsteps  o'er  us  fall. 

Yet  many  a  whisper  comes  to  me, 
Of  holier  liours  and  calm  repose, 

Where  beauty  leads  my  soul  to  see 

The  unsullied  light  she  round  me  throws. 


OUR    WORLD    IS    FULL    OF   JOY.  203 

This  Life  is  dark  to  souls  that  clins: 
Tenacious  round  the  scenes  of  earth, 

That  earnest  seek  some  base-born  thing, 
Unknowing  joys  of  purer  birth. 

But  sinless  spirits  gaze  around. 

And  sinless  joys  spring  forth  to  view, 

For  sinless  hearts  are  ever  found 
Investing  Life  with  sinless  hue. 

These  spirits  seem  to  look  on  earth. 

With  vision  taught  in  Heaven's  pure  clime, 

And,  gazing  far,  to  know  the  worth 
Of  learning  in  this  vale  of  Time. 

They  see  a  world  of  wondrous  mould, 

With  flowers,  and  streams,  and  vales,  and  hills. 

Which  Heaven's  bright  beams  fore'er  enfold. 
And  fill  them  all  with  rapture  thrills. 

So  speaks  the  Love  Divine  to  thee, 

Be  pure,  and  pure  all  things  will  seem  ; 

This  sin-marked  world  will  blissful  be, 
Till  lost  in  Heaven's  unfading  beam. 


204  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 


LETTER  TO  COUSIN  'BEL'. 

Would  you  believe  it,  'Bel' — that  there  is  foetry 
in  a  woodpile — genuine  unmitigated  poetry,  dipped 
up  from  the  very  heart  of  Helicon.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it  ?  Well,  there  is ;  and,  what  is  better  still,  it 
is  not  a  moth  born  of  the  sunshine ;  but  a  genuine 
bird  of  Parnassus,  dashing  rain-diamonds  from  its 
wings,  and  weaving  rainbows,  and  turning  rain-clouds 
into — whatever  you  choose — the  friars  cowl  and 
gown,  or  the  ermine  and  velvet  of  St.  James,  as  your 
taste  suggests.  But  it  is  a  Niobe  ;  or  rather  a  Venus 
bathing  in  an  upper  sea ;  for  the  mu^e  of  the  wood- 
pile, you  must  know,  is  a  rain-divinity.  To  illustrate. 
We  have  hud  a  week — oh,  such  a  week  !  If  I  pos- 
sessed any  mechanical  skill  it  would  have  made  a  Noah 
of  me,  six  days  ago.  Drizzle,  drizzle  !  patter,  patter  ! 
from  darkness  to  darkness ;  for  the  day  is  one  con- 
tinued twilight,  the  damp  light  coming  in  and  going 
out  at  its  usual  hours,  as  though  it  acicd  only  from  a 
sense  of  duty — sick  and  dizzy  enough,  mean-wliilo, 
to  prefer  being  alone.  The  night  too — but  nights 
never  hang  heavily  on  my  hands,  thanks  to  the  little 
people  from  Dreamland. 

Did  you  ever  spend  a  rainy  day  in  the  country, 
'Hcl'?  You  will  say  yes  ;  for  now  I  have  asked,  I 
rocollcct  one  or  two  when  you  were  with  us.  But 
Walter  was  liere  then  ;  so,  of  course,  your  sun  shone. 


LETTER    TO    COUSIN     BEL  .  205 

Once  imagine  those  rainy  days  without  a  lover, 
'Bella  ;  and  then  think  of  seven  of  them  all  in  a  row, 
so  near  a  like  that  you  cannot  distinguish  one  from  its 
twin  ;  and  you  must  keep  an  almanac  in  your  hand 
to  prove  to  yourself  that  yesterday  has  not  come  back 
again  to  cheat  you  into  living  a  stale  day.  By  the 
way,  what  a  fresh  life  we  have  of  it ;  forever  using 
new  time,  moments  just  coined  from  stray  fragments 
of  eternity,  soiled  by  nobody's  breath,  and  thrown  by 
as  soon  as  tarnished  or  embalmed  by  ours.  Not  quite 
thrown  by  either.  They  are  following  after  us,  a 
line  of  strange  things  strangely  broidered  over,  to 
buoy  us  heavenward  like  the  tail  of  a  kite,  or  drag 
us  down,  a  chain  of  lead.  "Revenous  a  nos  montons." 
The  woodpile.  There  it  stands  with  the  water 
drip,  dripping  from  it — all  motionless,  and  meek  as 
Mooly,  "midway  in  the  marshy  pool."  (You  admire 
musical  sounds,  'Bel' ;  and  there  is  alliteration  for  you, 
worthy  of  Laura  Matilda,  or  Laureate  Southey.) 
Drip  !  drip ! — ^there's  something  chiding  in  that  wood- 
pile— a  dumb  reverence  for  what  is,  which  makes  me 
ashamed  of  wishing  for  the  ninty-ninth  time,  as  I  was 
on  the  point  of  doing,  that  the  rain  "would  be  over  and 
gone."  Resigned  to  the  decrees  of  Providence !  oh, 
it  w  a  hard  thing,  'Bel'.  Think  of  our  hopes  as  they 
are  first  formed,  with  a  heart-throb  in  ever  tiny  bud — 
then  think  of  them  as  they  begin  to  expand  blushing, 
brightening,  bursting  out  from  the  envious  green,  fresh 
and  glorious — our  gay  gorgeous  hopes — think  of  them 
in  their  glad  beauty,  and  watch  the  coming  of  the  rain- 
storm. How  they  strive  to  stand,  poor  perishable 
things  ?     How  they  wave,  and  quiver,  and  wrestle ; 


206  THE    LAITREL   -WREATH. 

and  then  see  their  bright  petals  swept  aownward  and 
scattered,  gemming  the  wet  ground,  before  one  sunray 
had  given  them  a  baptismal  kiss.  Lost  before  named  ! 
Poor  hopes  !  Piliable  hopers  ! 

Not  poetry,  did  you  say  ?  Well,  it  is  pliilosophy 
then  ;  and  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  there  is  the  dif- 
ference of  a  maple  and  an  elm  stick  between  the  two. 
1  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  same  divinity  presides 
over  both.  To  be  sure  poetry  shows  the  dimpled  foot, 
mantled  only  by  the  hem  of  a  lady's  robe ;  while 
philosophy  strides  off  in  buskin  and  hosen ;  but  you 
may  see  them  step  behind  the  scenes  at  any  moment 
and  change  in  attire. 

I  have  gained  quite  an  affection  for  that  woodpile, 
since  I  have  had  nothing  else  to  look  at ;  and  it  went 
to  my  heart  this  morning  to  have  a  heavy  armful  trans- 
ferred to  my  room,  for  the  purpose  of  correcting  the 
dampness  of  tlie  atmosphere.  I  felt  as  though  com- 
mitting a  kind  of  sacrilege,  worse  still,  burning  my 
monitor,  because  perhaps  its  teachings  chid  me.  And 
then  when  tlie  wild  flames  were  all  raving  around  it — 
how  could  I  help,  'Bel',  unclasping  a  clasp,  and  looking 
into  the  morrow  of  a  little  trembler,  who  would  fain 
cling  a  life-long  to  the  present!  My  life  has  been  one 
track  of  roses ;  I  have  imbibed  their  freshness  and 
drank  their  perfume ;  my  smiles  have  been  heart-born, 
and  every  tear  has  had  a  rainbow  in  it.  I  have  led  a 
happy,  happy  life,  'Bel' — thank  God  !  who  has  granted 
every  blessing  to  a  hoping  mother's  prayers: — but  a 
wiser  than  the  hoping  has  said,  "If  a  man  live  many 
years,  and  rejoice  in  them  all,  yet  let  him  remember 
tlio  days  of  darkiirss;   for  thuy  shall  be  many."     Not 


LETTER  TO  COUSIN  BEL  .  207 

entire  darkness,  'Bel' ;  for  I  know  of  stars  that  will  al- 
ways sparkle,  of  lamps  that  will  always  burn ;  but 
still  there  are  days  of  trial  awaiting  me — perhaps  in 
the  distance,  perhaps  very  near,  even  at  the  door.  I 
cannot  die,  till  my  lip  has  pressed  the  bitter.  Heaven 
help  me  then  ;  and  not  me  alone,  but  all  of  us  ! 

I  wish  you  could  sit  by  me  this  morning  and  see  my 
fire  burn.  There  is  John  Rogers  himself,  with  his 
picket-fence  of  little  people,  to  keep  him  from  run- 
ning away,  just  as  he  stands  in  the  primer  ;  and  there 
is  the  veritable  hero,  Jack-the-giant-killer,  if  I  am  to 
judge  by  the  enormous  club  he  carries,  three  times  the 
size  of  himself;  and  there — there,  as  I  live,  is  your 
own  Broadway,  the  genuine  article,  the  shops  all 
tricked  out  in  finery  and  the  passers-by  in  the  same 
way  bedizened — all  walking  show-cases.  And  now 
the  fire-scene  changes,  and  I  look  into  a  magnificent 
palace — my  foot  is  aching  just  to  press  that  gorgeous 
carpet,  and — there,  a  stick  has  rolled  down  upon  it,  and 
my  palace  is  in  the  condition  of  many  another  one 
that  I  have  builded.  That  big  stick  of  maple  seems 
to  me  like  a  martyr  suffering  for  opinion's  sake.  Cer- 
iainly  it  is  the  very  stick  that  I  saw  yesterday  turning 
its  bleached  face  heavenward  with  a  submissiveness 
which  had  no  sigh  in  it ;  and,  with  its  last  year's 
green  for  a  text,  it  preached  me  a  long  sermon.  It 
was  not  a  very  agreeable  one,  however.  Shall  I  tell 
you  a  few  things  it  wrote  on  my  heart  ? 

I  never  afflicted  myself  much  at  the  decay  of  em- 
pires— never  gave  half  as  many  tears  to  the  downfall 
of  all  the  mighty  mourning  places  of  the  old  world 
combined,  as  I  shed  over  the  grave  I  dug  in  child  hood. 


208  THE    LAUKEL    WREATH. 

for  a  poor  broken-winged  robin,  I  had  striven  to  win 
back  to  life.  My  heart  is  not  big  enough  for  that  kind 
of  sympathy  ;  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  convince 
me  that  there  is  a  place  in  the  world  of  quite  as  much 
consequence  as  Alderbrook.  If  I  should  wake  some 
of  these  morninfrs  and  find  the  houses  all  turned  into 
stacks  of  chimneys  (we  have  few  Grecian  pillars,  and 
such  like  unnccessaries,  so  our  ruins  would  not  be  very 
romantic)  and  the  direction  of  the  only  nice  street  we 
have,  such  a  disputable  thing  that  the  antiquarians  of 
Crow-Kill  would  wrangle  about  it  forever  after — I  say 
if  I  should  awake  and  find  changes  like  these,  I  should 
probably  weep  a  few  such  tears  as  have,  during  the 
lapse  of  centuries,  bathed  the  ruins  that  claim  the 
world  for  mourners.  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  noth- 
ing in  comparison  with  seeing  a  new  grave  dug  over 
the  white  stile  yonder  among  the  cypresses.  The  de- 
cay of  life,  the  extinguishing  of  the  lamp  lighted  by 
the  hand  of  God, — oh,  tlicre  is  sometliingin  that  wliicli 
I  can  feel.  I  do  not  know  what  kind  of  life  there  was 
in  that  maple-tree  last  summer — how  high,  how  glori- 
ous, how  much  like  this  which  is  now  reveling  in  my 
veins  and  bubbling  at  my  heart — but  I  do  know  that 
there  was  life  in  it.  And  life,  of  whatever  kind,  is  a 
mysterious,  a  fearfully  mysterious  thing.  But  it  is 
gone  now  ;  and  the  living  tree  which  gloried  in  the 
sunlight,  and  wrestled  with  the  winds  of  heaven — that 
had  veins  and  arteries  through  which  the  life-current 
wandered  as  through  mine,  is  degraded  to  the  impass- 
ivencss  of  tlie  stone — below  the  stone  in  its  earlier 
perishablencss,  as  the  human  frame  is  below  that  in  a 
more  revolting  dissolution.     Sometimes  I  fancy,  as  the 


LETTER    TO    COUSIN     BEL.  209 

stick  lies  smouldering  in  that  crust  of  gray  ashes,  that 
the  principle  of  life  has  not  yet  departed  from  it ; — 
for,  the  unwilling  yielding  to  the  flame,  the  occasional 
brightening  up,  as  though  a  hoping  soul  looked  through 
it,  the  half  mirthful  crackle,  and  the  low  mournful 
song  like  its  own  requiem,  all  seem  to  speak  of  an  in- 
ner life,  which  the  axe  of  the  woodman  failed  to  reach. 
I  observe  too,  as  I  watch  it,  fragments  crumbling  back 
into  ashes ;  while,  above,  floats  off"  a  blue  wreath, 
waving  and  curling — winging  its  way  heaven-ward 
with  all  the  gladness  of  an  emancipated  spirit.  Will 
you  believe  with  me,  'Bella,  that  this  is  the  same 
spirit  which  animated  the  living  leaves  of  the  maple- 
tree,  when  they  coquetted  with  the  summer  sunlight, 
and  folded  the  wind-geni  in  their  green  arms,  and 
whispered,  with  their  fresh  lips,  of  things,  which,  I 
suppose,  the  birds  know  more  about  than  we?  Why 
should  it  not  be  ?  I  have  no  objection  to  the  Indian's 
plan  of  taking  dogs,  and  horses,  and  other  loveable 
things,  to  heaven  ;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should 
like  to  see  him  chase  the  "spotted  Fomen,"  or  put  a 
veto  on  the  flourish  of  bright  wings  ;  but  I  think  all 
these  will  be  a  study  for  us  there.  Our  natures  have 
become  contracted  in  this  cramped-up  breathing-place 
where  we  are  hustled  about,  and  jostled  against  each 
other  till  self-protection — self,  seZf-every-thing — is  the 
one  chord  vibrating  to  our  every  breath.  We  have 
arranged  a  book  of  Nature,  and  put  ourselves  in  as  a 
frontispiece ;  {the  picture — other  living  things,  only  the 
border,)  but  the  whole  may  be  reversed  in  Heaven. 
" Just  as  short  of  reason  he  may  fall, 

Who  thinks  all  made  for  one  as  one  for  all." 
O 


210  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

And  what  egotism  to  believe  our  own  the  only 
deathless  spirits  to  pass  from  this  briglit  earth  to  a 
bri<fhtcr  Paradise  !  Ourselves  alone  lifted  with,  the 
true  life — all  things  else  cursed  with  a  mockery,  a 
semblance,  like  the  Iris-head  bubble  to  the  sun. 

But,  'Bel,'  I  do  hope  this  maple  stick  is  as  insensi- 
ble as  it  seemed  on  the  woodpile  yesterday ;  for  J 
have  no  great  fancy  for  playing  the  executioner, 
though  it  did  teach  me  an  ugly  lesson.  What  that 
lesson  was  I  have  only  hinted  at  yet ;  it  is  scarce  a  thing 
to  repeat  to  one  so  bright  and  joyous  as  you  arc.  Per- 
haps you  never  think  of  the  dark  phantoms  that 
trouble  the  existence  of  other  mortals — but  oh,  'Bel', 
death  is  a  tiling  to  dread  !  And  then  it  is  such  an 
ever-present  thing; — we  are  reminded  of  it  every 
moment  of  our  lives.  There  is  no  hour  so  sacred,  no 
place  so  secure,  but  we  cast  a  look  over  the  shoulder 
at  the  fearful  shape  following  us.  At  dawn  and  at 
dew-fall,  at  noon-tide  blaze,  and  in  the  star-broidered 
midnight,  it  is  all  the  same. 

When  day  is  dying  in  the  west, 
Eacli  flickering  ray  of  crimson  light, 
The  sky,  in  gold  and  purple  dressed. 
The  cloud,  with  glory  all  bcdight, 
And  every  shade  that  ushers  night. 
And  each  cool  breeze  tliat  comes  to  weave 
Its  danipncss  with  my  curls — all  leave 
A  lesson  sad. 

Last  iii,t;lil  1  pluckrd  ;i  hulf-shut  liower. 
Which  bluslied  and  nodded  on  its  stem  ; 


LETTER    TO    COUSIN    'bEl'.  211 

A  tliiniT  to  frrace  a  Peri's  bower  : 
It  seemed  to  me  some  priceless  geu;, 
Dropped  from  an  angel's  diadem; 
But  soon  the  blossom  drooping  lay, 
And,  as  it  withered,  seemed  to  say, 
We're  passing  all ! 

I  loved  a  fair-haired,  gentle  boy, 
(A  bud  of  brightness — ah,  too  rare  !) 
I  loved  him,  and  I  saw  with  joy. 
Heaven's  purity  all  centered  there  ; 
But  he  went  up,  that  Heaven  to  share . 
And,  as  his  spirit  from  him  stole, 
His  last  look,  graved  upon  my  soul. 
Learn  thus  to  die  ! 

I've  seen  the  star  that  glowed  in  heaven, 
When  other  stars  seemed  half  asleep, 
As  though  from  its  proud  station  driven, 
Go  rushing  down  the  az  ure  steep, 
Thro'  space  unmeasured,  dark,  and  deep  ; 
And,  as  it  vanished  far  in  night, 
I  read  by  its  departing  light, 

Thu9  perish  all ! 

I've,  in  its  dotage,  seen  the  year 
Worn  out  and  weary,  struggling  on. 
Till,  falling  prostrate  on  its  bier, 
Time  marked  another  cycle  gone  ; 
And,  as  I  heard  the  dying  moan, 
Upon  my  trembling  heart,  there  fell 
The  awful  words,  as  by  a  spell, 

Death — death  to  all ! 


212  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

They  come  on  every  breath  of  air, 
Which  sighs  its  feeble  life  away ; 
They  're  whispered  by  each  blossom  fair, 
Which  folds  a  lid  at  close  of  day ; 
There's  nought  of  e^irth  or  sad  or  gay, 
There's  nought  below  the  star-lit  skies, 
But  leaves  one  lesson  as  it  flies — 

Thou  too  must  die  ! 

And  numberless  those  silvery  chords, 

Dissevered  by  the  Spoiler's  hand. 

But  each  in  breaking  still  affords, 

A  tone  to  say  we  all  are  banned  ; 

And  on  each  brow  by  death-damps  spanned. 

The  pall,  the  slowly  moving  hearse 

Is  traced  the  burden  of  my  verse, — 

Death — death  to  man  ! 

Ah  !  the  strong,  the  mighty  may  well  turn  pale,  and 
quake,  and  shrivel,  and  mewl,  even  as  an  infant  in  its 
swaddlings,  witli  that  skeleton  finger  stealthily  wind- 
ing itself  among  the  warm,  blood-full  veins,  turning 
them  to  ice  as  it  goes.  With  that  dark  sovereign  of  a 
darksome  hour  looking  into  his  eyes  and  counting 
through  these  faitliCul  mirrors  the  pulsations  of  the 
heart  below  ;  scattering,  one  by  one,  the  sands  from 
his  glass,  and  stealing,  drop  by  drop,  the  life  from  its 
fountain,  the  brave  strong-souled  man  may  measure 
courage  with  tlir  timed  maiden,  and  never  blush  to 
find  an  equal  in  heroism.  To  have  those  who  have 
loved,  caressed,  and  watched  over  us  with  slceple.ss 
attention,  turn  loathingly  from   us  and  hustle  us  into 


LETTER  TO  COUSIN  BEL  .  213 

the  earth,  among  the  stones  and  festering  germs  of 
poisonous  weeds  with  the  frozen  clods  upon  ou7 
bosoms,  to  moulder  in  darkness  and  gloom,  to  be  trod 
upon  and  forgotten ;  while  beautiful  beings  that  we 
could  love,  oh  so  dearly  !  are  flitting  above  us  ;  and 
the  light  is  glancing ;  and  birds,  drunk  with  joyousness, 
wheeling  and  careering  in  the  sunbeam  ;  and  all  the 
world  going  on  merrily  as  when  our  hearts  went  with 
it — oh !  what  has  man's  courage,  man's  strength, 
man's  stern  self-control,  to  offer  against  such  an  over- 
\\helming  certainty  !  There  is  so  much  in  this  dear 
beautiful  world,  too,  for  the  heart  to  cling  to  !  What 
is  there  in  the  sad  catalogue  of  human  suffering  like 
wrenching  away 

-That  holy  link  which  first, 


Within  the  soul's  rich  mine,  was  moulded 
When  life  awoke,  and  love's  pure  wing, 
Another  nestlina;  close  enfolded  ? 


& 


We  turn  to  the  hearth-stone  in  the  hour  of  pain,  and 
nestle  back  upon  a  mother's  bosom ;  and  we  say  we 
cannot  leave  it — we  cannot  die.  A  father's  proud  eye 
is  on  us,  ambition  blossoms  in  our  hearts  beneath  it ; 
and  then,  how  stiflingly  steal  over  us  thoughts  of  the 
coffin  and  the  grave  !  .  How  can  we  die  in  the  dew  of 
our  morning  with  all  those  glowing  visions  unreal- 
ized !  How  can  we  pass  in  age  when  the  thousand 
chains,  which  we  have  been  our  life-long  forging,  are 
all  linked  to  the  bright,  beautiful  things  here,  which 
we  can  but  love  !  Father  in  Heaven,  teach  me  trust 
in  thee.     As  these  chords  which  thou  hast  strung  lose 


214  THE    LAUREL    WREA7H. 

tono  and  canker  against  thy  cunning  worknnan.sliip, 
gather  tliem  into  thine  own  hand,  and  attune  them 
anew  to  accord  with  the  harps  of  angels.  Teach  me 
trust  in  thee  ;  that  when  the  coffin-lid  shuts  out  the 
sunshine,  and  the  green-hladed  grass  springs  between 
my  breast  and  the  feet  of  the  living,  I  may  still  be  in 
the  midst  of  light,  and  joy  and  love — love  measureless 
as  eternity. 

I  had  quite  forgotten  that  I  was  writing  a  letter, 
'Bel',  and  have  jotted  down  the  thoughts  as  they  came 
tumbling  to  the  point  of  my  pen,  with  a  merciless 
lack  of  consideration  for  you,  who  are  probably  bask- 
ing in  the  mirth-giving  brightness  of  a  sunny  morning. 
But  by  this  will  you  discover  that  a  rainy  day  in  the 
country  is  not  without  its  uses.  It  gives  us  thinking- 
time,  and  that  lengthens  our  lives  : — none  live  so  fast 
and  have  so  few  way-marks  as  the  butterflies.  Be- 
sides, thought  is  the  father  of  action — so,  to  that  great 
sheet  of  mist,  and  the  dripping  rain,  and  the  beaded 
grass,  and  the  miry  streets,  many  a  good  deed  may 
owe  its  parentage.  But  now  my  stick  of  maple  is 
nearly  ciiarred,  and  my  eyes  arc  trying  to  hide  them- 
selves behind  pairs  of  fringes  which  arc  nearing  cacli 
other  for  an  embrace.  I  will  to  sleep,  'Bel',  witli  a 
looking-glass  in  the  window,  to  give  me  intelligence  of 
tlie  first  strip  of  blue  that  disengages  itself  from  the 
prisoning  clouds.  Adieu,  my  bright  cousin.  All  good 
attend  you,  and  no  more  rain  visit  New  York  than  may 
be  needed  as  a  thought-maker. 

Thine  forever, 

Fanny  Forester. 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN.  21.^ 


GRENVILLE  MELLEN. 

BT  MRS.  JANE  E.  LOCKE. 

"  He  died  in  the  midst  of  his  glory," 

Happy  are  they  who  die  in  youth,  when  their 
renown  is  around  tliem. — Ossian. 

In  the  midst  of  his  glory  ? — well,  let  him  depart, 
While  the  life-blood  of  virtue  was  thrilling  the  heart, 
With  his  hopes  in  their  glow,  and  his  loves  warm  as 

youth, 
By  the  world  ne'er  deceived,  its  promises  truth. 
With  his  fresh-gathered  wreaths  all  dewy  and  bright, 
On  manhood's  rich  brow  as  a  circle  of  light- 
In  the  midst  of  his  glory  'twere  well  he  should  die, 
'Like  the  free  bird,  to  pass  to  his  home  in  the  sky,' 
While  grief  from  the  heart  in  true  agony  flows ; 
And  the  long  sable  plume  no  mockery  shows  : 
With  the  lay  on  his  lip,  his  lyre  in  full  tune, 
Its  strings  gently  quivering  to  the  breezes  of  noon  ; 
No  dust  on  his  sandals,  no  sweat  on  his  brow. 
His  garments  unsoiled,  and  the  seal  of  his  vow 
Unmarred  by  long  travel,  or  wandering  abode, 
He  has  entered  forever  the  house  of  his  God. 

The  aged  and  poor — would  ye  theirs  were  his  lot 
Whose  hays  have  grown  sere,  whom  the  world  has 
forgot. 


21b  THE    LAITREL    WKEATH. 

Who  seem  but  as  linked  to  the  deeds  and  the  men 
Of  far  other  times,  whom  these  may  not  ken  ; 
Whose  friends  have  departed — whose  loved  ones  have 

flown — 
Who  lean  on  the  staff  and  but  wander  alone  : 
Who  no  longer  receive  from  the  crowd,  as  they  go. 
Adulation  and  song,  forms  in  homage  bent  low  ; 
Whose  deeds  we  record  as  the  olden  in  time, 
Whose  hearts  and  whose  harps  to  lost  music  must 

chime. 

In  the  midst  of  his  glory,  oh !  who  would  not  go, 
Nor  tarry  on  earth  till  his  pulses  be  low  ; 
His  laurel  wreath  withered,  his  name  but  a  song, 
Or  sullied  by  sin,  or  blasted  by  wrong  ; 
Till  his  sun  in  its  Occident  waning  and  dim, 
Shine  aslant,  and  life's  shadows  be  lengthened  to  him, 
Till  lie  have  outlived  e'en  his  choicest  desires, 
And  his  hand  smite  no  more  his  harp's  thrilling  wires, 
Or  he  shall  rise  up  at  the  song  of  the  bird, 
And  the  daughters  of  music  no  longer  be  heard. 
While  broadly  shall  flourish  the  boor  almond-tree; 
And  the  grasshopper  e'en  a  burden  shall  be  ; 
Who  would  envy  them  thus,  in  their  threescore  years, 
The  length  of  their  days  ;   mine  own  eyes  with  tears 
Oft  o'crllow  as  I  gaze,  and  the  pulse  of  my  heart 
Beats  ;   in  midst  of  his  glory  'twere  well  to  depart. 

Yet,  brother,  forgive  me — I  owe  it  to  thee, 
To  thy  harp's  native  gushing,  its  melody  free, 
Its  spirit-like  wanderings,  Promethean  its  fire. 
Whose  magic  spell  charmed  every  friend  ofthclyro. 


GRENVILLE    MELLEN.'  217 

While  the  throng  are  still  wailing,  nay,  press  on  thy 

bier. 
Receive  it — I  owe  it — the  dirge  and  the  tear  ; 
For  the  skillful  hand  fallen,  the  minstrel  heart  cold, 
Deep  sorrow  and  mourning  we  could  not  withhold. 
'Tis  ours  to  bewail  thee,  and  sore  is  the  heart ; 
But  for  thee,  aye,  for  thee  it  were  well  to  depart. 


218  THE    LAUREL    WKEATH. 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 

It  was  night,  and  a  time  of  feasting  in  Chaldea'a 
proud  capitol.  The  king  was  there,  with  his  lords 
and  official  authorities.  He  preferred  to  honor  that 
banquet  with  his  presence,  and  sat  in  all  the  pomp  and 
pride  of  power,  glorying  in  his  rank  and  wealth.  The 
fashion,  the  beauty,  the  chivalry  of  the  realm  were 
assembled.  The  royal  palace  sparkled  with  life,  and 
its  brilliantly  illuminated  walls  echoed  back  the  loud 
peals  of  laughter  and  music.  It  was  an  exciting  scene 
— the  glistening  lights — the  sparkling  wine-cups — ^the 
merry  song,  were  calculated  to  dispel  every  obtrusive 
thought  and  cause  every  countenance  to  glow,  every 
eye  to  kindle,  and  every  heart  to  thrill  with  the  most 
intense  excitement.  The  king  is  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  sycophants — he  is  caressed  and  applauded, 
until  he  fancies  himself  a  hero — almost  a  god  with  the 
multitude.  Intoxicated  by  wine  and  flattery,  a  daric 
sacrilegious  crime  enters  his  heart.  He  orders  the 
holy  temple  of  God  to  be  invaded,  and  the  golden  ves- 
sels of  tho  sanctuary  to  be  taken  from  their  quiet  rest- 
ing places. 

There  is  no  appearance  of  sadness  or  gloom  as  yet ; 
for  his  palace  halls  arc  still  resounding  with  the  heavy 
peals  of  the  ap|)Uui(ling  crowd.  The  consecrated  cups 
are  brought,  "and  the  king  and  his  princes,  his  wives 
and  his  concubines  drunk   in  tlicni."     And  now,  in 


belshazzar's  feast.  ■  219 

sportive  glee,  they  "praise  the  gods  of  gold  and  silver, 
of  brass,  of  iron,  of  wood,  and  of  stone."  But,  in  a 
moment,  the  bright  scene  is  changed — the  crest  of 
kingly  pride  is  fallen — the  joyous  laugh  is  hushed  and 
still — paleness  sits  upon  every  brow,  and  the  multitude 
stand  aghast,  as  though  a  thunder-bolt  had  fallen  from 
the  clouds  and  was  about  to  do  the  cruel  work  of  des- 
tiny. They  gaze  in  mute  astonishment  on  the  mys- 
terious hand,  now  writing  strange  things  on  that  pal- 
ace wall !  They  read,  "  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,  Uphar- 
sin."  These  are  ominous  words;  and  the  thoughts 
of  Belshazzar  greatly  trouble  him,  "  so  that  the  joints 
of  his  loins  are  loosed,  and  his  knees  smite  one  against 
another."  He  gazes,  in  wild  and  fearful  apprehen- 
sion, upon  the  pictures  of  guilt  and  the  images  of  ter- 
ror as  they  pass  in  rapid  review  before  him.  Not  all 
the  charms  of  music,  nor  the  eloquence  of  domestic 
love,  can  dissipate  the  gloom  which  hangs,  like  a  cloud 
of  fearfulness,  over  his  saddened  and  subdued  spirit. 
His  darkest  apprehensions  are  realized,  as  the  Hebrew 
interpreter  solves  the  strange  mystery.  His  princely 
possessions  are  to  fall  from  his  hand — his  kingdom  is 
to  be  divided  and  given  to  others,  and  he  is  to  exchange 
the  gay  banquet  for  his  Maker's  bar,  a  trial  and  a  sen- 
tence !  Who  that  witnessed  that  scene  of  revelry — the 
king  in  his  glory,  wielding  the  sceptre  of  power,  could 
have  anticipated  a  contrast,  so  sad  and  sudden,  in 
the  history  of  that  proud  monarch  of  the  East  1 
But  he  stands  not  alone,  on  the  records  of  crime,  as 
an  illustration  of  the  truth  that  daring  impiety  shall 
not  go  unpunished.  When  another  king  led  forth  his 
hosts,  and  harnessed  his  horses  to  pursue  a  fugitive 


220  THE   LAUREL  WREATH. 

and  defenseless  people,  who  that  saw  their  proud  ar- 
ray, as  they  passed  up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt,  would 
have  believed  that  a  few  days  would  seal  their  fate, 
and  of  all  this  gallant  host,  not  a  single  individual 
would  ever  return  to  the  land  he  had  left  ?  When 
Sennacherib  brought  his  army,  like  locusts,  against 
Judah,  and  encamped  before  the  Holy  City,  who  that 
was  not  inspired  with  a  faith  from  above,  would,  for 
a  moment,  have  indulged  the  belief  that,  in  a  few 
hours,  this  immense  maiss  of  living  and  moving  beings 
would  be  pale  and  still  as  the  tents  that  covered  them  ? 
The  path  of  transgression  is  ever  fraught  with  dan- 
ger, and  he  who  pursues  it,  is  treading  upon  a  land  of 
earthquakes.  Like  Belshazzar,  he  may  reach  the 
heights  of  station,  and  triumph  upon  a  pinnacle  of 
fame — he  may  sparkle  with  the  crowns  and  jewels  of 
earth,  yet,  sooner  or  later,  he  must  reel  from  his  giddy 
lieight  into  the  vale  below.  Neither  genius,  talent, 
or  eloquence,  can  counteract  the  gravitating  forces  of 
depravity,  or  shiekl  liim  from  the  lightnings  of  retrib- 
utive justice.  We  have  seen  one  who  blazed  witli  the 
splendor  of  intellect,  who  could  wake  the  slumbering 
energies  of  a  nation  by  the  power  of  his  oratory,  and 
grasp,  with  ease,  the  most  difficult  and  complicated 
subjects;  yet,  with  all  his  intellectual  acumen,  he 
could  no  where  discover  the  traces  of  a  Divine  hand. 
The  stars  looked  out  from  their  distant  homes  upon 
him,  as  if  to  rebuke  his  folly — the  eartli,  with  its  gar- 
niture of  flowers — the  air,  every  element  seemed  to  be 
at  war  with  him,  as  the  very  madman  of  the  universe. 
Would  you  know  who  this  strange  beinir  was,  who 
could  look  abroad,  with  admiring  gaze,  upon  the  works 


BELSHAZZAR  S     FEAST.  221 

of  nature,  and  behold  everywhere  the  evidences  of  de- 
sign,  and  yet  deny  the  existence  o^dC Designer  ?  Would 
you  know  what  he  had  done  that  he  reeled  under  a  ten- 
fold weight  of  judgment?  His  name  was  Atheist. 
He  had  wilfully  closed  his  heart  to  the  entrance  of 
that  truth  which  giveth  light.  He  had  added  insult 
to  insult  to  the  Divinity  above,  and  given  the  reins  to 
the  appetites  of  his  nature,  until  the  heaviest  curses 
were  ready  to  break  upon  his  soul.  I  saw  him,  the 
astonishment  and  wonder  of  every  intelligence  that 
has  power  to  look  upon  the  heart  of  man.  He  was  so 
infatuated,  that  while  his  poor  soul  staggered  under 
the  fierce  and  withering  sirocco  of  that  spirit  which 
rioted  in  his  bosom,  he  fondly  dreamed  that  he  was 
free — that  he  had  broken  away  from  the  slavish  fetters 
of  education,  and  dashed  from  him  the  bigotry  of  old- 
en times.  But  mark  !  a  hand  writing  was  out  against 
him,  and,  like  Belshazzar,  he  trembled — he  was  petu- 
lant and  uneasy,  almost  in  a  rage  with  his  treacherous 
atheism.  I  saw  him  leap,  like  lightning,  from  the 
eminence  to  which  his  talent  and  genius  had  carried 
him  ;  and  at  his  bedside  I  stood,  when  disease,  despair 
and  death,  were  darkly  struggling  together,  and  heard 
him  sound  the  Julian  cry,  "  O,  Gallilean,  thou  hast 
conquered  me  !"  His  coffin  has  his  clay,  and  it  min- 
gles with  dust.  A  simple  stone  points  to  his  ashes — 
a  grassy  hillock  covers  a  few  bones  and  muscles,  and 
his  name  is  rapidly  fading  from  the  memory  of  man. 
I  have,  in  my  eye,  another  form  of  Belshazzar's 
folly.  He  was  one  who  could  charm  by  the  power 
of  song,  whose  eye  kindled  with  the  fire  of  inspiration 
as  the  poetic  sti'ain  flowed  in  graceful  numbers  from 

\ 


222  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

his  lips  :  yet,  with  all  the  brilliancy  of  his  imagination, 
he  was  a  careless  devotee  of  earth — he  worshiped  in 
her  temple,  knelt  at  her  shrine,  and  was  ambitious  of 
her  laurels  and  crowns.  Hence,  from  day  to  day^ 
you  might  espy  him  in  her  dust  and  haze,  racing  for 
her  phantoms,  perfectly  frenzied  in  the  pursuit  of  her 
music  and  dance.  True,  at  times,  he  would  pause  to 
breathe — true,  ever  and  anon,  conscience  would  set 
his  sins  in  order  before  him,  and  cause  him  to  tremble 
with  fearful  apprehensions — true,  once  and  again,  the 
grave  would  open  before  him  and  bury  a  comrade  in 
crime  within  its  narro^V  enclosure,  or  disease  would 
smite  him  as  its  victim.  Still,  the  effect  was  only  mo- 
mentary ;  and  away  he  would  hurry  to  the  hall  of 
mirth  or  to  the  scene  of  revelry,  and  drown  his  convic- 
tions amid  its  laughter  and  music.  Time  passed,  and 
the  world  had  not  been  blessed  by  the  efforts  of  his 
genius,  though  he  was  the  hero  of  song  and  had  rev- 
eled amid  the  creations  of  his  own  fancy.  No  house 
of  penury  had  he  visited — no  human  grief  had  he  as- 
suaged— no  star  had  he  hung  over  the  path  to  immor- 
tality. He  had  perverted  his  talent,  and  earth  was 
the  tlieatre  of  all  his  displays — the  "ultimatum"  of  all 
his  hopes — the  scene  of  all  his  solicitudes.  But  he, 
like  another  Belshazzar,  was  destined  to  see  a  hand 
writing  out  against  him.  It  sent  him,  shivering  with 
apprehension,  from  the  gay  banquet  of  flesh  and  sense. 
His  eye  soon  ceased  to  kindle  with  inspiration,  and 
liis  mind  to  glow  with  imagery.  Tlie  founlain  of  im- 
agination was  frozen  up — the  sparkling  stream  of  po- 
etry ceased  to  flow,  and  the  voice  of  song  forever  hush- 
ed.    He  was  DOW  in   dinp  trouble,  battling  with  tlio 


BELSHAZZAR'S    FEAST.  223* 

heavy  waves  of  affliction.  His  companions  gathered 
around  him  and  strove  to  comfort  him  by  referring  to 
his  poetry  and  genius — they  handed  him  the  world, 
with  its  wreath  of  honor — its  gay  panorama  of  music 
and  mirth.  But  he  frowned  upon  all,  and  turned 
away  in  disgust,  as  though  it  were  a  sickening  mock- 
ery of  his  agony. 

I  was  invited  to  visit  him — he  turned  upon  me  a  look 
of  unearthly  expression,  as  though  he  would  say, 
"Pray  for  me."  I  knelt  and  prayed,  and  while  I 
prayed  he  died.  But,  methought,  I  could  spy  the 
tear  still  glistening  on  his  pathway,  which  had  drop- 
ped from  the  eye,  wet  for  the  sins  of  his  soul. 


'224  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 


THE  PROSPERITY  OF  SCIENCE. 

A  Poem  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  celebration  of  the  fifti- 
eth Anniversary  of  Union  College,  Schenectady. 

BY    REY.    WM.    MC'JIMSEY. 

Near  Mohawk's  river,  Halls  of  Science  stand, 
From  which  goes  forth  an  impulse  through  the  land. 
To  form  the  minds  and  hearts  of  rising  youtn, 
And  lead  them  on  to  Learning  and  to  Truth. 

Bright  Science  here  time's  honored  laurels  yields, 
More  dear  than  fame  won  on  earth's  battle  fields  ; 
Taste,  Genius,  Talents,  Virtue,  all  conibine, 
To  spread  their  honors  on  its  hallowed  shrine. 

Improvement  springs  from  Education's  power, 
Where  friendship  grows  amid  the  College  bower, 
Association's  magic  voice  recalls 
The  scenes  of  life  that  once  did  cheer  its  walls. 

More  pure  than  waters  from  Castilian  streams, 
And  bright  as  virtue  with  light's  brilliant  beams 
Should  be  the  impulse  from  our  College  Halls, 
And  all  the  honors  that  adorn  their  walls.  * 

Oh  happy  impulse  of  Religion's  light. 

That  spreads  around  peace,  freedom,  science,  bright, 


*1 

i 


THE    PROSPEjlITy    OF    SCIENCE.  225 

The  fountains,  pure  the  streams  shall  also  be, 
And  nations  shall  their  influence  feel  and  see. 

Where  once  untutored  Indians  wild  did  roam, 
The  Muses  find  their  welcome  and  their  home  ; 
The  rapid  car,  joined  with  the  force  of  steam, 
Makes  distant  scenes  like  prospects  of  a  dream. 

Our  Alma  Mater,  not  unknown  to  fame, 

May  still  increase  the  glory  of  her  name, 

And  where  sweet  Mohawk's  silver  waters  flow, 

The  tree  of  Truth  and  Knowledge  strong  shall  grow. 

Let  brighter  laurels  yet  her  halls  adorn, 
And  music's  echoes  please  at  night  and  morn. 
When  Learning  flows  from  the  Pierian  Spring, 
May  Zion's  hill  Salvation's  accents  bring. 

The  Word  of  Life  with  beams  of  joy  shall  shine, 
The  flowers  of  Taste  and  wreaths  of  Love  entwine, 
Long  may  the  lamp  of  Truth  and  Science  burn, 
And  deathless  Hope  illume  the  Scholar's  urn. 

When  Nature  glows  with  beauty,  and  the  sky 
With  sweet  enchantment  strikes  the  Poet's  eye ; 
The  light  of  Genius  from  her  halls  shall  blaze, 
And  Freedom's  spirit  future  honors  raise. 
P  K2 


226  THE    LAUREL     WREATH. 


THE  WHITE  FLOAVER. 

A   TALE. 

BY  MRS.  D.  ELLEN  GOODMAN 

"There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many  an  oar,  ; 

Where  tlie  brown  otter  phingcd  him  from  the  brake 
And  the  deer  drank :  as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er, 

The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore : 
And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 

A  look  of  glad  and  innocent  beauty  wore. 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive  there." 

Bryant. 

Two  hundred  years  —  what  a  mighty  change  have 
they  wrought  over  the  broad,  fair  face  of  happy  New- 
England  !  How  have  the  proud,  patliless  forests  dwin- 
dled away  before  the  axe  of  the  bold  settler ;  how 
have  princely  cities  and  flourishing  villages  been  rear- 
ed where  once  a  deep  and  uncultivated  wilderness  lay 
in  silence  unbroken,  save  by  the  shrill  cry  of  the  un- 
tutored savage,  and  the  yell  of  ferocious  beasts.  And 
the  red  men,  then  the  sole  proprietors  of  the  soil,  the 
bold  and  free  with  their  dark-eyed  sons  and  daughters, 
where  are  they  ?  Alas  !  their  race  has  withered  and 
died :  liioy  have  been  driven  back  from  their  own 
broad  lands  an<'  the  graves  of  their  fathers,  until  not 
a  trace  of  their  footsteps  is  visible.  Not  tamely  and 
timidly   did  they  submit  to  these   invasions,  not   wil- 


THE    WHITE  FLOWER.  227 

lingly  did  they  give  up  their  homes  and  their  hunting 
grounds :  but  with  terrible  vengeance,  they  often  turn- 
ed upon  their  pursuers,  and  the  green  earth  was  moist- 
ened with  the  white  man's  blood.  Many  a  bold  and 
brave  adventurer,  and  noble,  and  innocent  too,  fell  a  vic- 
tim to  savage  cruelty,  and  while  his  bones  were  left 
unburied  and  unnoticed,  his  bleeding  scalp  was  borne 
in  triumph  to  grace  the  blackened  walls  of  the  Indi- 
an's wigwam.  Many  a  gentle,  fair  girl  was  torn  from 
her  friends  and  home,  while  the  captive's  ch'^erless 
fate,  the  captive's  awful  death  were  hers.  In  a  quiet 
rural  town  in  the  heart  of  New  England,  where  the 
slender  church-spire  pierces  the  rich  foliage,  and  the 
neat  white  cottage  contrasts  beautifully  with  the  deep 
velvet  sward  around  it,  at  the  time  in  which  our  story 
commences,  was  seen  only  here  and  there,  a  rude, 
humble  log  house,  with  its  narrow  patch  of  cultivated 
ground ;  all,  all  else,  was  a  ib rest  unbroken,  and  al- 
most impenetrable. 

A  few  bold  sons  of  fortune  had  emigrated  hither 
with  their  families,  and  having  made  friends  with  the 
neighboring  Indians,  and  by  kindness  and  gentle  treat- 
ment gained  their  confidence,  the  cheerful  and  hardy 
band  dwelt  together  in  love  and  perfect  harmony.  It 
was  a  still,  quiet  afternoon,  and  on  the  green  bank  of 
a  clear  river,  which  winds  in  many  a  graceful  curve 
through  the  rich  meadows  and  around  the  base  of  a 
bold  mountain,  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  were. re- 
clining. All  around  them  a  dark,  deep  forest  waved  ; 
and  a  little  footpath,  narrow,  and  well  trodden  was 
lost  in  the  grove  behind  them,  and  evidently  led  to  one 
of  the  rude  huts  of  the  settlers.     The  boy  could  not 


228  THE  LAUREL  WREATH. 

liavc  been  over  fourteen  years  old  ;  and  he  had  an  open, 
thoughtful  brow,  while  upon  his  young  face  was  an  ex- 
pression of  lofty  courage  and  fearlessness.  His  eye  was 
dark  and  sparkling,  and  his  full  round  cheeks  glowed 
with  health.  His  little  tanned  hands  were  busy  in 
weaving  a  small  willow  basket ;  while  very  often  he 
lifted  his  large,  bright  eyes  from  his  employment  and 
smiled  upon  the  gentle  girl,  who  was  watcliing  his  eve- 
■ry  movement  with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction.  She 
was  a  little  fairy  ;  for  her  age  could  not  have  exceed- 
ed ten  years ;  and  the  clear,  pearly  whiteness  of  her 
complexion,  the  soft,  deep  blue  of  her  earnest  eyes, 
with  the  sunny,  golden  curls  which  fell  over  her  neck, 
and  nearly  covered  the  dimpled  arms  on  which  her  red 
checks  rested,  were  in  striking  contrast  with  the  dark, 
proud  beauty  of  the  boy. 

"Tlicre,  Lucy,"  at  last  he  exclaimed,  rising  to  his 
feet,  and  holding  up  the  prize,  "your  basket  is  finish- 
ed, and  is  it  not  pretty  ?" 

"Yes,  brother  Hurry,"  said  the  silvery  voice  of  the 
child,  as  she  grasped  the  treasure  and  gazed  delight- 
edly over  it,  "I  am  sure  that  even  IMatto  himself  could 
not  frame  a  prettier.  And  now  let  us  go  and  fill  it 
with  wild  flowers  from  the  glen  yonder,  that  mamma 
may  smile  upon  us  when  we  return." 

The  glad  children  sot  forward,  hand  in  hand,  to  gath- 
er the  beautiful  buds  and  blossoms,  which  smikd  in- 
vitingly from  the  sliady  grove ;  but  a  quick  footstep 
caused  them  to  look  round,  when  just  beliind  them  and 
emerging  from  the  little  path,  appeared  a  tall,  stout 
Indian  boy.  There  was  a  look  of  good  humor  in  his 
swarthy  face,  and  his  keen,  black  oees  had  nothing  of 


THE    WHITE    FLOWER.  229 

savage  ferocity  in  their  expression,  but,  on  the  contra- 
ry, a  look  of  pity  and  commiseration  seemed  mingling 
in  the  earnest  gaze  with  which  he  regarded  the  boy 
and  girl.  He  looked  cautiously  about  him,  laid  his 
ear  upon  the  green  earth,  then  silently  motioning  them 
to  sit  down,  threw  himself  at  their  feet,  and  again  look- 
ing all  around,  began  in  a  low  distinct  voice, 

"Mattolove  white  man,  Matto  love  white  boy  and  his 
young  White  Flov/er,Matto  never  see  white  man  killed, 
and  his  father  the  Great  Chief,  never  kill  pale  face,  or 
steal  White  Flower.  But  last  night  the  chief's  cabin 
sheltered  a  strange  brother.  The  stranger  is  a  mighty 
king,  and  over  many  mountains,  and  across  many  great 
rivers,  he  came  to  pay  his  red  brothers  a  visit.  The 
stranger  chief  has  a  proud,  cold  heart,  and  is  very  angry 
that  the  white  face  has  come  to  dwell  among  us.  This 
morning  he  left  the  cabin  and  approached  the  white 
man's  hut.  Matto  followed  though  his  ugly  face  made  the 
boy's  heart  shake.  The  White  Flower  sported  before 
thedoor,andtheoldChiefsmiledtosee  her,  He  looked 
long  after  she  had  entered  the  house,  and  as  he  turned 
away,  Matto  heard  him  say,  'white  girl  pretty.  White 
Flower  fair,  pale  face  lose  her.  Great  King  steal  white 
man's  child  and  carry  her  off  to  his  people  :  for  the 
blood  of  pale  girl  make  the  gods  glad.'  Matte's  heart 
very  sorry,  and  he  turn  away  and  wander  long  in  the 
deep  woods.  Go  pale  brother,  and  care  for  the  White 
Flower;  for  the  mighty  Chief  leave  for  his  far  home  to 
night,  and  the  pale  face  cry  much  if  his  Flower  be 
gone." 

The  next  instant  the  boy  had  disappeared,  and  long 
after  the  sound  of  his  receding  footsteps  had  died  away 


230  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

did  the  timid  girl  and  her  startled  brother  sit  gazing 
down  through  the  dark,  dim  forest,  nestled  closely  to- 
gether and  scarcely  breathing  from  fear  and  astonish- 
ment. At  last,  suddenly  rising,  and  grasping  the 
hand  of  his  companion,  Harry  Sutton  moved  towards 
the  narrow  path,  whispering  softly  as  he  drew  her 
along,  "Oh  Lucy  !  that  was  a  fearful  story,  and  Rlatto 
would  not  lie.  If  that  ugly  chief  should  steal  you 
Lucy,  I  should  die  ;  for  I  would  not  want  to  live  if 
you  were  gone.  Though  you  are  not  my  sister,  I  love 
youj  oh,  so  much.  Let  us  hasten,  for  he  may  be  here." 
And  the  warm  hearted  boy  threw  his  arms  around  the 
form  of  the  fair  child  and  hurried  her  up  the  winding 
way.  They  had  not  proceeded  far  ere  a  quick,  light  step 
arrested  tlieir  attention,  and  looking  fearfully  behind, 
the  eyes  of  the  faithful  boy  fell  in  horror  upon  the  figure 
ofatall,  muscular  Indian  close  upon  them.  The  next  in- 
stant he  had  seized  the  fainting  girl  in  his  sinewy  arms, 
and  witli  long  and  rapid  strides,  was  bearing  her 
away.  For  one  moment,  the  agonized  youth  stood 
with  his  hands  extended,  his  wild  eyes  glaring  upon 
the  retreating  figure,  and  his  white  lips  parted  as  if  to 
utter  a  scream  of  terror :  then  with  a  low,  faint  cry, 
he  fell  to  the  ground,  and  his  pale  check  pressed  the 
rich,  green  sward,  while  the  soft,  dark  curls  mingled 
with  the  wild  flowers  Avhich  formed  his  pillow.  Long 
liad  the  child  lain  lifeless  and  senseless,  when  slowly 
and  noiselessly  proceeding  up  the  pathway,  appeared 
Matto,  the  young  Chief.  His  quick  eye  caught  the 
prostrate  form  of  his  friend,  and  instantly  he  was  kneel- 
ing by  his  side,  and  had  placed  the  cold  head  upon  his 
bosom,  wliili"  ho  gazed  sadly  into  thr  iiianinmte  face- 


,  THE   WHITE   FLOWER.  231 

"The  White  Flower  gone,"  he  murmured.  "Mat- 
to  was  afraid,  and  pale  boy  dead.  Young  Indian's 
heart  sorry.     But  no,  pale  face  must  not  die." 

Then  he  gently  conveyed  the  lifeless  body  to  the 
brink  of  a  clear  spring  which  boiled  up  from  the 
depth  of  a  velvet  brimmed  basin  close  by,  and  bathed 
the  icy  forehead  in  the  limpid  waters.  It  was  not 
long  before  life  came  ebbing  slowly  back  to  the  crush- 
ed heart  of  the  poor  boy,  and  raising  his  head  from  the 
breast  of  the  young  Indian,  he  gazed  wildly  around 
him  for  a  moment,  then  starting  to  his  feet,  tottered 
forward  a  few  paces,  but  would  have  fallen  again, 
had  not  the  extended  arms  of  Matto  supported  him. 

"She  has  gone,"  he  muttered,  gazing  with  a  strange 
look,  into  the  sorrowing  face  of  his  friend.  "That 
dreadful  chief  has  carried  her  away.  Ah  !  my  moth- 
er, your  heart  will  break.  I  cannot  tell  her,  Matto. 
Oh,  what  shall  we  do  without  Lucy,  my  own  dear 
Lucy  ?"  And  a  flood  of  tears  mingled  with  those  of  his 
companion,  choked  his  further  utterance. 

A  few  moments,  and  the  parents  knew  all.  The 
mother  was  almost  frantic  with  grief;  for  although 
Lucy  was  the  child  of  her  adoption,-  yet  she  loved  her 
with  all  the  devotion  of  a  mother's  heart ;  and  the  fa- 
ther, a  man  of  noble  soul,  and  a  brave  heart,  hesitated 
but  an  instant  in  determining  the  course  to  pursue. 
The  startling  news  soon  spread  throughout  the  little 
hamlet  that  the  White  Flower  was  a  captive  ;  that  the 
fairest  and  gentlest  of  that  small  band  was  exposed  to 
savage  cruelty  and  death — and  every  brave,  fearless 
man  was  on  the  march.  Harry  Sutton  staid  behind 
with  his  mother  ;  for  he  was  too  young  to  join  the  little 


232  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

company ;  but  his  father  silently  and  rapidly  led 
forward  the  unflinching  few.  A  long,  dreary  week, 
did  they  continue  their  search  ;  and  it  was  only  when 
the  last  spark  of  hope  had  died  in  the  bosom  of  the 
gallant  leader,  and  his  low,  broken  tones  ordered  a 
return,  that  the  faithful  band  went  back  to  bear  to  the 
despairing  mother  and  her  anxious  boy,  the  tidings  of 
their  ill  success. 

¥  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  brillant  rays 
of  a  July  sun  struggled  through  the  interwoven  boughs 
of  a  deep,  heavy  forest.  Their  soft,  bright  light  fell 
like  a  shower  of  diamonds  upon  the  surface  of  a  pure, 
calm  lake,  whose  borders  were  fringed  with  many  a 
wild,  luxuriant  flower,  and  tall,  stately  tree,  to  whoso 
smooth,  brown  bark,  were  clinging  the  green  vine  and 
clustering  grape.  From  every  side  of  the  still  lake, 
narrow  foot-paths  wound  their  way  up  the  green  hill- 
side, and  through  the  dark  forest,  and  far  in  the  dis- 
tance, some  were  seen  to  terminate  before  the  low 
door  of  a  rude  Indian  wigwam. 

It  was  a  deep,  shadowy,  dreamy  bed — that  resting 
place  of  the  beautiful  lake  :  and  on  that  peaceful,  glo- 
rious afternoon,  when  above  its  broad  bosom  shone 
the  blue  skies,  and  to  ripple  gently  its  waters,  came 
he  summer  breeze,  whispering  sadly  through  the 
trembling  leaves,  it  appeared  more  lovely  than  ever. 
At  least,  so  thought  the  fair,  young  girl  who  reclined 
on  its  margin,  and  gazed  into  its  cold  breast.  For  a 
full  hour  she  had  not  raised  her  eyes  from  those  spark- 
ling waters,  and  not  a  muscle  of  her  face  had  moved, 
not  a  word   li;id   departed  from  her  lialfniiciu'd   lips. 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  233 

Her  senses  seemed  bound  by  some  powerful  spell ; 
and  on,  on  she  dreamed.  She  was  surprisingly  love- 
ly. Dressed  in  the  Indian  garb,  tho'  the  long,  abund- 
ant tresses  of  her  golden  hair,  falling  in  wild  beauty 
over  her  bare  neck  and  shoulders  of  snowy  whiteness : 
the  fair,  smooth  brow,  long,  drooping  lashes,  entirely 
concealed  the  deep  orbs  beneath  them,  and  the  little 
pearly  hands  and  feet,  told  plainly  that  she  was  no 
native  of  that  uncultivated  and  unbroken  forest. 

At  last  she  looked  up,  and  a  world  of  thought,  of 
love,  lay  in  those  melting,  azure  eyes.  They  had 
the  deep,  beautiful  blue  of  the  arching  skies  above 
her  head,  and  the  black  lashes  which  fringed  them 
made  them  lie  in  shadow,  like  the  sweet  lake  at  her  feet. 

She  spoke.  There  was  music  in  the  clear,  low 
voice,  and  as  she  bent  her  head  upon  her  clasped  hands, 
until  the  long  unshorn  curls  concealed  her  face,  she 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper, 

"Yes,  I  remember  him — he  was  a  bold,  noble  boy 
— and  I  loved  to  look  into  his  dark  eyes.  He  loved  me  ; 
yet  I  think  he  was  not  my  brother.  And  I  loved  him, 
too ;  oh,  so  dearly !  My  mother — I  have  not  forgotten 
her  quiet  look,  nor  the  high,  proud  brow  of  my  dear  fa- 
ther. Eight  years,"  she  murmured,  slowly ;  "  yes,  it  is 
eight  years  since  Harry  and  I  were  sporting  down  that 
pleasant  glen,  and  I  was  borne  away.  I  wonder  if  my 
brother  wept — I  wonder  if  he  remembers  me.  He  said 
he  should  die  if  I  were  lost.  Perhaps  he  is  dead ;"  and 
a  shudder  passed  over  her  frame.  "  My  mother  ;  has 
she  forgotten  her  child  ?  Lucy  they  called  me  then. 
I  wonder  if  the  White  Flower  has  altered  much.     Oh, 


234         ^  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

my  mother,  my  dear  father,  and  Harry,  how  I  wish  1 
could  see  you  all  again." 

"  Whom  would  the  White  Flower  see  ?"  said  a  low, 
sweet  voice,  at  her  side ;  and  the  sad  girl  raised  her 
tearful  eyes  to  the  bending  form  of  a  graceful  Indian 
maiden,  who  had  approached  her  unnoticed.  She 
was  young,  not  older  than  her  companion,  and  almost 
as  singularly  beautiful.  Her  features  were  perfect, 
.  and  her  form  faultless :  and  upon  her  broad,  dark 
forehead,  intellect  was  stamped,  while  its  light  flashed 
from  the  unread  depths  of  her  large  lustrous  eyes. 
The  long,  straight,  flowing  hair,  fell  all  over  her  flush- 
ed cheeks,  as  she  bent  above  her  friend ;  and  when 
she  opened  her  ripe  red  lips  to  speak,  two  rows  of  the 
whitest  and  pearliest  teeth  glowed  from  between  them, 
and  the  deep  tones  of  her  voice  were  like  the  music  of 
a  rippling  rill. 

"Whom  would  the  White  Flower  see?"  she  re- 
peated, winding  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  the  silent 
girl,  and  drawing  her  tenderly  to  her  bosom.  "  Is  not 
Wanetta  by  her  side,  and  is  she  not  loved  by  the  great 
chief's  daughter — is  she  not  her  sister  ?" 

"  Wanetta  is  good  and  kind,"  sighed  the  White 
Flower,  as  she  pressed  her  lips  lovingly  to  the  brown 
forehead.  "  Wanetta  is  good,  and  the  White  Flow- 
er loves  her  I'cd  sister  much,  very  much.  But  she 
cannot  forget  the  dear  friends  she  has  lost — she  cannot 
forget  her  early  home,  nor  how  her  long  absence  is 
mourned  and  wept." 

"  Then  Whito  Flower  would  h-ave  Ihm-  rod  sister," 
sadly  suid   llio   Indian   girl,   as  slio   wijH'd  a  tear  from 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  235 

her  eye  :  "  she  would  return  to  her  own  people,  and 
dwell  far  from  Wanetta's  side?" 

"  She  would  go,  if  Wanetta  could  accompany  her," 
quickly  interrupted  the  fair  girl.  "  She  would  be 
glad  to  see,  once  more,  the  mother  and  father  who 
watched  over  her  infancy,  and  the  glad  young  brother 
she  once  loved.  But  she  can  never  see  them  more  ; 
for  a  great  way  lies  between  the  White  Flower  and 
her  once  bright  home.  No — she  would  not  leave 
Wanetta ;  for  does  she  not  owe  her  life  to  the  great 
chief's  daughter  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  whispered  the  maiden,  as  if  to  herself. 
"My  father  listened  to  me  then  ;  he  saved  the  life  of 
the  White  Flower — he  permitted  her  to  be  his  daugh- 
ter and  the  sister  of  his  child.  But  now" — and  a  deep 
shade  passed  over  her  thoughtful  face — "  now  he  will 
not  heed  my  cries !  The  pale  sister  must  know,"  she 
continued,  in  a  louder  tone,  "that  a  white  brother  lies 
bound  in  yonder  wigwam.  Wanetta  has  prayed,  but 
in  vain,  that  the  great  chief  would  spare  the  life  of  the 
pale  face.  But  he  heeds  not  her  prayer.  The  cap- 
tive must  die." 

"  A  captive  bound  and  doomed  to  death  !"  said  the 
White  Flower.  "Oh!  Wanetta,  can  he  not  be  sa- 
ved ?"  A  tear  sparkled  in  the  sad  blue  eyes  of  the 
earnest  girl,  and  she  looked  anxiously  into  the  averted 
face  of  her  friend. 

But  the  maiden  shook  her  head.  She,  too,  wept  as 
she  said, 

"  The  chief  waits  only  his  return  from  a  neighbor- 
ing tribe,  whither  he. has  just  gone,  to  sacrifice  his  vic- 
tim,    lie  is  a  fair-faced  youth,  of  noble  mien ;  and 


236  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

on  his  pale  brow  I  saw  despair  and  anguish  written. 
He  may — yes,  he  may  have  a  mother  to  weep  his 
fate ;  but  bride  he  has  none :  he  is  too  much  a  boy. 
But  come.  Would  the  White  Flower  gaze  upon  the 
captive  ?  He  sits  alone  in  yonder  wigwam  ;  and  it 
might  give  him  joy  to  see  the  pale  sister." 

Silently  the  two  maidens  ascended  the  hill,  an  I  ap- 
proached the  lonely  hut.  An  old  Indian  was  station- 
ed near  the  door  as  sentinel ;  but  the  chief's  daugh- 
ter proudly  waved  her  little  hand,  uttering,  in  a  low 
tone, 

'•  Omongo  may  away  ;  for  Wanctta  and  her  sister 
would  see  the  prisoner;"  and  the  old  man  quickly 
retired. 

Noiselessly  the  bear-skin  was  moved  aside,  and 
peering  through  the  aperture  into  the  gloomy  apart- 
ment, the  girls  stood,  each  breatlilcssly  gazing  upon 
the  captive  youth.  He  was  indeed  of  noble  bearing — 
a  mere  boy ;  but  on  his  broad,  open  forehead,  was  no 
shadow  of  fear.  His  proud,  dark  eye,  bent  upon  the 
ground,  quailed  not ;  and  no  tear-drop  stained  his 
manly  cheek.  Thick,  soft  locks,"  of  jetty  hue,  cluster- 
ed around  his  fine  head,  and  lay  in  natural  curls  over 
the  low  collar  of  his  blue  hunting-coat.  He  sat  with 
his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast,  and  as  his  thoughts 
evidently  wandered  back  to  friends  and  home,  a  shade 
of  deep  sadness  crossed  his  face,  and  one  low  sigh 
caine  from  his  bosom. 

The  bear-skin  slowly  dropped  to  its  place,  and  Wa- 
notta  turned  sorrowfully  toward  her  companion.  A 
faint  scream  esca])('d  her  lips  as  she  darted  forward 
and  caught  the  fainting  girl  in  her  arms.     She  bore 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  237 

her,  with  lightning  speed,  down  the  green  declivity, 
and  laid  her  gently  upon  the  bank  of  the  pure  lake ; 
then  dipping  the  cool  water  with  her  trembling  hands, 
she  sprinkled  the  white  forehead  of  the  pale  Flovver, 
calling  upon  her  with  her  silvery  voice  to  awake. 

"  Is  the  White  Flower  dead  ?"  she  sighed.  "  Poor 
pale  sister.  Wanetta  loves  her — loves  much — she 
must  awake."  • 

"  Did  I  dream,  Wanetta  ?"  whispered  the  bewilder- 
ed girl,  as  she  slowly  opened  her  eyes  and  started  from 
the  maiden's  embrace.  "No — I  have  seen  him — it  is 
he — it  is — and  he  must  die  !  Wanetta,  that  captive 
shall  not  die.  The  young  brother  of  the  White  Flow- 
er must  not  perish.  He  is  my  brother,  Wanetta — my 
own  dear  brother — ^the  little  boy  I  left  so  long  ago. 
Oh,  yes,  I  remember  his  soft  eyes,  and  those  dark, 
glossy  curls.  I  have  never  forgotten  him.  I  must 
see  him  again,  Wanetta.  I  would  ask  him  if  he 
remembers  theWhite  Flower^ — Lucy,  his  sister — and 
the  dark  day  she  left  him  alone."  And  the  excited 
girl  hid  her  face  in  the  bosom  of  her  red  sister  and  wept. 

"  Hush :  the  White  Flower  must  not  cry  much," 
whispered  the  affectionate  creature.  "  The  pale  face 
shall  be  free,  and  his  young  Flower  shall  return  with 
him  to  the  home  of  her  fathers.  Yes,"  she  added, 
calmly,  but  sorrowfully,  bending  over  the  head  of  the 
weeping  child,  "  Wanetta  will  send  her  away,  though 
it  will  almost  break  her  heart.  Come,  will  we  see 
the  young  chief  again  ?  Shall  the  pale  captive's  sis- 
ter  gladden  his  heart  ?" 

There  was  a  look  of  resignation  and  deep  sorrow 
on  the  heroic  maiden's  face,  as  she  arose  and  drew 


238  THE    lAUREL   WREATH. 

her  companion  toward  the  narrow  path  leading  to  the 
wigwam.  But  she  appeared  very  firm,  and  seemed 
bent  upon  some  daring  object. 

"  Would  the  White  Flower  tarry  till  Wanetta  shall 
tell  her  brother  ?"  she  said,  seeing  the  fair  girl  irreso- 
lute. 

"  Yes,  dear  Wanetta :  tell  the  pale  face  that  the 
sister  he  once  loved  would  see  him  again — tell  him  she 
remembers  him  well,  and  that  she  will  never  see  him 
die  !" 

The  next  moment,  the  graceful  figure  had  bounded 
up  the  pathway,  and  was  again  at  the  entrance  of  the 
rude  hut.  The  guard  was  motioned  away — the  swing- 
in"-  door  rose  and  fell — and  she  stood,  silent  and  sad, 
before  the  captive.  His  eyes  were  still  bent  upon  the 
earth,  and  he  raised  them  not  at  the  slight  footfall  of 
the  fairy  intruder ;  and,  for  an  instant,  she  stood  re- 
garding him  with  fixed  and  earnest  attention.  At 
last,  her  soft,  low  voice,  sounded  in  his  car,  and  ho 
looked  wonderingly  up  into  her  sweet,  pitying  face. 

"  Tiie  pale  face  is  weary,  and  would  go  buck  again 
to  his  people.  He  likes  not  to  be  a  captive  ;  and  the 
Great  Chief  has  sworn  that  he  shall  (He.  But  he  shall 
yet  be  free — shall  yet  go  home,  and  carry  his  White 
Flower  to  her  motlier's  bosom." 

The  youth  started  as  the  strange  girl's  lust  sentence 
full  upon  liis  car,  and,  with  a  smile,  he  repealed, 
"  White  Flower  ?" 

"Yes:  the  White  Flower  lives — is  the  Chief 'sdnugh- 
Icr  and  Wanctta's  sister.  She  loves  her  white  sister, 
and  would  not  let  her  go  :  but  shall  White  Flower  seo 
lier  young  brother  perish?     No — never!" 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  2S9 

■'  Tell  me,"  cried  the  startled  youth,  wild  with  joy 
and  amazement ;  "  tell  me  if  what  you  say  is  true — 
if  my  own  sister  Lucy — my  precious  sister  is  yet 
alive  ?" 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  when  a  flood  of  light  stream- 
ed in  from  the  aperture,  then  the  dry  skin  fell  again, 
and  the  White  Flower  rushed  to  her  brother's  arms. 
She  uttered  a  low,  joyful  cry,  as  her  beautiful  head 
rested  upon  the  bosom  of  the  glad  youth,  with  her 
snowy  arms  about  his  neck ;  and  the  Indian  maiden 
turned  aside  to  brush  away  a  tear,  half  of  joy,  half  of 
regret.  The  young  man  could  not  speak  ;  but  sat  as 
if  doubting  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  while  he  gazed 
with  a  look  of  intense  interest  over  :the  lovely  face  of 
the  clinging  girl.  ^  A  soft,  tremulous  voice,  broke  the 
silence,  and  oh  !  it  was  tb';  same  thrilHng  music  which 
had  so  often  swept  across  his  soul,  in  cVys  long  gone 
by. 

"  Harry,  dear  Harry !  we  will  nevei  part  more. 
Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  does  our  mother  yet  li'-e  ? — and 
our  noble  father— where  ia  he  ?  Speak,  my  brother ; 
or  do  you  not  know  your  ov/n  Lucy  ?" 

"  Know  you,  Lucy  ?  know  you  !  Surprise  and 
joy  have  kept  me  silent ;  but  should  I  not  have  known 
this  fair  brow  and  these  sweet  eyes  among  ten  thou 
sand  ?  Oh,  Lucy  !  I  am  so  happy  :  for  life  to  me  has 
been  a  dark  and  dreary  day  since  you  were  torn  from 
my  arms.  And  our  poor  parents  have  never  become 
reconciled  to  your  loss.  Night  and  morning  we  have 
wept  bitter  tears — and  year  after  year  we  have  hoped 
to  see  you  once  more,  and  been  disappointed.  But 
we  shall  be  happy  again  ;  oh  !  so  very  happy  !" 


240  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

"Pale  face  says  truly,"  said  the  Indian  girl,  as  she 
knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  White  Flower,  and  threw  her 
arms  about  her  waist.  "  White  Flower  shall  go  home 
with  her  brother ;  and  the  cabin  shall  know  her  no 
longer.  Wanetta  will  weep  all  day,  and  at  night  she 
shall  dream  of  her  sister,  and  stand  again  by  her  side. 
Yes-^Wanetta  will  cry  long  for  her  pale  Flower,  and 
seek  her  by  the  pure  lake  and  along  the  hill-side.  The 
wild  flowerets  shall  wither  on  their  beds ;  for  Wanet- 
ta will  want  none  to  wind  amon^  the  bricht  curls  of 
her  young  sister — none  to  .wreath  above  her  brow. 
Wanetta  is  glad  that  the  White  Flower  has  taught  her 
to  read ;  and  the  little  books  they  have  read  together 
will  be  always  near  her.  She  will  pray  every  day 
to  the  Great  Spirit  that  she  may  yet  once  more  see  her 
sister's  face."  She  moved  toward  the  door,  savin^, 
in  a  low  tone,  "  White  Flower  stay  with  her  brother, 
and  Wanetta  come  again.'" 

It  was  several  hours  before  the  Chief's  daujihter 
returned  to  the  prisoner's  hut,  and  the  interview  of 
Harry  Sutton  and  his  restored  sister  was  interestinfT 
and  uninterrupted. 

The  White  Flower  artlessly  and  with  many  tears 
told  the  story  of  her  long  captivity,  her  love  for  the 
warm  hearted  Wanetta,  and  how  she  had  often  longed 
to  know  something  of  the  dear  friends  from  whose  em- 
brace she  had  been  so  suddenly  and  cruelly  torn  ;  iiow 
she  had  wept  often  when  thinking  of  her  parents  and 
brother,  and  tiiat  her  tears  had  always  been  dried  by 
the  gentle  hand  of  her  red  sister.  And  Harry  told  the 
weeping  girl  whom  he  folded  to  his  heart  of  the  deep 
Badness  of  the  little  group  who  had  nightly  gathered 


^ 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  241 

dround  their  hearth-stone,  and  how  her  name  had  ever 
mingled  in  their  prayers  and  conversation.  He  told 
lier  how  he  had  endeavored  to  supply  her  place  to  his 
mother's  mourning  heart,  and  that  he  had  ever  whis- 
pered of  hope,  though  a  dark  cloud  hung  upon  his 
spirits,  and  often  his  pillow  had  been  drenched  in  tears. 

"Oh,  Lucy  !"  he  concluded,  as  he  kissed  her  smooth 
brow,  and  looked  tenderly  into  her  beaming  eyes, 
"shall  we  not  be  very  happy  if  we  ever  reach  that 
pleasant  home,  and  our  dear,  kind  parents,  who  are, 
ere  this,  filled  with  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  their  only 
son  ?" 

It  was  a  glorious,  cloudless  evening,  when  Harry  Sut- 
ton and  his  sister  noiselessly  followed  the  brave  Indian 
girl  out  of  the  low  wigwam,  and  down  the  narrow 
path,  to  the  borders  of  the  still  lake.  The  full  moon 
was  peeping  down  through  the  thick  forest  trees,  and 
casting  many  a  fantastic  shadow  over  the  green  sward. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  reached  the  farther 
side  of  the  lake,  when  the  three  stopped  and  gazed 
around  them. 

"We  are  safe,"  whispered  Wanetta,  "not  till  morn- 
ing will  your  flight  be  discovered,  and  my  father  with 
nearly  all  the  braves  of  his  band  are  away,  when  they 
return,  you  will  be  beyond  pursuit,  and  the  proud 
chief's  daughter  will  quell  her  father's  rage."  Then 
stooping,  she  took  from  behind  a  large  tree,  a  small 
bundle,  which  she  put  into  the  hands  of  the  admiring 
youth,  saying  softly,  "Here  are  provisions,  for  you 
will  need  food:  and  some  clothes  for  the  White  Flower; 
now,"  she  continued,  in  a  sadder  tone,  while  she  drew 

the  weeping  girl  to  her  bosom,  "now  the  white  Flower 
Q  L 


842  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

must  go.  Wanetta  is  very  sorry,  but  she  cry  not  now. 
The  pale  face  will  love  his  young  sister,  and  she  will 
find  her  own  mother  far  away.  But  will  she  never 
think  of  her  poor  red  sister,  will  she  soon  forget  her  ?" 
''Dear,  dear  Wanetta,"  sobbed  the  weeping  girl, 
"White  Flower  will  never  forget  you.  Oh,  would 
that  she  could  take  the  chief's  child  to  her  far  home. 
All  day  and  all  night  the  pale  Flower  will  think  and 
dream  of  Wanetta,  and  she  will  pray  the  Great  Spirit 
that  she  may  see  her  red  sister  again." 

"Then  go,"  said  the  noble  girl,  "Wanetta  gives  you 
up,  she  will  go  back  to  her  lonely  hut  and  try  to  sleep  : 
but  the  pale  face  must  speed  his  way,  and  the  White 
Flower  will  never  tire." 

She  pressed  the  hand  of  the  young  man  to  her  lips, 
then  placed  that  of  the  White  Flower  within  it,  bent 
her  brown   forehead  for  an  instant  upon  the  neck  of 
her  friend,  and  then  her  light  form  was  seen  a  moment 
bounding  over  the  path,    and   lost   in    shadow,    while 
the  fugitives  pursued  rapidly  and  in  silcnoe,  their  de- 
vious way  through  the  untrodden   wild. — It   was  a 
dreadful  night.     A  dark  and  lowering  sky  covered  the 
earth,  through  whose  gloomy   depths  the  lightnings 
flashed  vividly,  while  the  low,  hoarse  thunder  nnitt(>r- 
cd  in  the   distance.     A  terrible  storm  was  gathering, 
and  the  bravest  men  and  youth  of  the  hamlet  liad  as- 
sembled  in  their  snug  cottages  to  listen  fearfully  to  ihe 
war  of  elements  without.     In  the  comfortable  kitchen 
of  a  neat,  small  house,  was  seated  a  man  in  middle 
life,  with  a  bold,  open  face,  and  a  lady  but  little  young- 
er, on  whose   handsome   countenance   was  a  look   of 
wild   distress   and  deep  anxiety.     She   often    walked 


THE    WHITE    FLOWER  243 

impatiently  towards  the  window,  looked  a  moment  out 
into  the  thick  darkness,  then  returned  to  her  seat, 
while  the  troubled  expression  of  her  face  grew  deeper, 
and  a  shudder  passed  over  her  frame  as  each  loud 
peal  came  to  her  ear,  and  flash  after  flash  of  lurid 
light  turned  the  dense  darkness  to  day.  Her  com- 
panion  was  not  unconcerned,  but  often  bending  his 
head  upon  his  clasped  hands,  a  low,  faint  groan  escap- 
ed his  bosom,  and  even  his  stout  frame  tremoled  ^\ith 
no  common  fear. 

"Oh,  Henry  !"  at  last  whispered  the  woman,  as  she 
leaned  upon  his  shoulder,  and  covered  her  ashy  face 
in  his  breast,  "'tis  fearful,  Where  can  our  darling 
be  ?  Perhaps  he  has  fallen  by  a  savage  hand,  or  he 
may  even  now  be  a  captive  and  doomed  to  an  awful  death. 
Oh,  Heaven!  why  comes  he  not  ?"  A  deep  sob  heaved 
her  bosom,  and  the  stricken  mother  wept  bitter  tears. 

"God  will  watch  over  him,"  said  the  husband,  and 
his  voice  quivered  while  he  brushed  a  tear  from  his 
rough  cheSk.  "Let  us  trust  in  Him,  He  will  not  smite 
us  a  second  time,  and  tear  from  our  arms  forever  our 
only  child.  Oh,  my  dear  wife,  let  us  be  patient,  Harry 
will  return.  'Tis  true  he  has  been  long  away,  longer 
than  we  expected,  but  you  know  his  fondness  for  hunting, 
and  love  of  adventure.  Let  us  not  despair,  but  look  in 
faith  to  Heaven,  and  we  shall  yet  see  our  dear  boy  in 
safety,  and  bless  him  many  times  more." 

"God  grant  it,"  sighed  the  weeping  wife,  "but  this 
is  a  dreadful  night,  and  if  he  should  be  exposed  to 

this  awful    tempest hark!    what    did   1   hoar! 

It  was  a  footstep,  a  voice,  there,  did  you  not  lioar  a 
whisper?" 


^44  THE    LAUKEL    WREATH. 

She  bent  eagerly  forward,  then  started  towards  tlie 
door,  and  as  it  softly  opened  to  admit  the  weary  wan- 
derers ;  Harry  Sutton  fell  upon  his  mother's  neck,  and 
was  folded  to  her  yearning  heart. 

"Mother,  dear  Mother!"  he  said  hurriedly,  "God 
has  preserved  us  through  every  danger,  and  brought, 
not  only  your  own  boy  to  your  arms,  but  Lucy,  tlie 
lost,  the  restored  child  of  your  love." 

While  his  astonished  parents  gazed  incredulously 
into  his  beaming  face,  and  from  him  to  the  silent  girl, 
the  fond  youth  gently  removed  the  large  Indian  blanket 
which  had  entirely  concealed  her  form,  and  the  next 
moment  the  beautiful  White  Flower  nestled  to  her 
mother's  bosom,  and  wept  hysterically  in  her  arms. 

"Lucy  !  my  sweet,  my  darling  Lucy !"  was  all 
the  glad  woman  could  utter,  as  she  raised  the  drooping 
head  of  her  ever  idolized,  long  lamented  child,  and 
pressed  her  warm  kisses  upon  her  lovely  face,  and 
as  Harry  knelt  at  his  mother's  feet  and  covered  Ins 
tearful  eyes,  the  overjoyed  father  laid  a  hand  upon  the 
head  of  each  restored  child,  and  upon  the  hushed  air 
arose  a  tremulous  prayer  of  praise  and  thanksgiving 
to  Him  who  had  guided  the  feet  of  his  dcaroncs  through 
tlie  lone  wilderness,  and  brought  them,  after  so  much 
danger  and  peril,  to  the  safe  and  happy  home  wliich 
had  so  often  sheltered  thorn,  and  to  the  warm  hearts 
which  had  yearned  to  bless  them. 

A  happy  group  that  evening  gathered  around  the 
hearth-stone  of  Henry  Sutton,  and  the  touching  story 
cf  the  wanderers  was  listened  to  with  many  a  trcnib- 
lingsigh  and  falling  tear.  But  they  were  happy-hap- 
py in  being  restored  to  cacli  dlln  r's  arms  :  and  as  the 


THE    WHITE    FLOWER.  245 

angry  clouds  passed  away  from  the  shrouded  heavens 
and  left  the  clear,  blue  vault  with  its  sparkling  gems, 
undimmcd  and  unobscured,  so  passed  from  the  joyous 
hearts  of  those  glad  parents,  a  weight  of  anguish, 
which  for  eight  long  years  had  rendered  life  a  dark 
and  gloomy  day. 

Mc  4c  4:  *  *  * 

Twenty-five  years  had  passed  since  the  commence- 
ment of  our  story :  and  they  had  brought  with  them 
the  changes  which  time  always  effects.  The  small 
settlement  in  the  bosom  of  tlie  wilderness,  had  become 
a  thriving  and  busy  little  village,  the  forest  trees  were 
cleared  away :  and  a  neat,  humble  church,  with  its 
taper  spire,  and  small,  white  cottages,  embosomed  in 
foliage,  and  fields  of  grain,  and  meadows  of  rich  pas- 
turage, had  taken  place  of  the  low  log  hut  and  wild 
waste.  The  bright  silver  stream,  whose  waters  had 
been  ever  in  shadow,  now  spread  its  placid  bosom  to 
the  pure  sunbeams,  and  danced  along  in  very  joyous- 
ness,  while  upon  its  sloping  shore,  wandered  fair  young 
girls  and  laughing  boys,  in  quest  of  clustering  wild 
flowers,  without  fear ;  for  the  foot  of  an  Indian  had 
not  for  many  years  pressed  its  bank. 

Near  the  river's  shore,  and  in  sight  of  its  shining 
waters,  stood  a  beautiful  little  cottage,  its  low  windows 
shaded  by  a  clambering  vine,  and  the  narrow,  green 
path  which  led  to  the  door,  winding  its  way  through 
a  thicket  of  drooping  rose  bushes,  while  far  away, 
and  stretching  to  the  brink  of  the  stream,  was  a 
meadow  of  rich  sward,  with  here  and  there  a  clump 
of  trees  scattered  over  it.  In  full  view,  rose  the  slen- 
der church  spire,  relieved  against  the  side  of  a  bold, 


246  THE  LAUREL  WREATH. 

dark  mountain,  around  whose  rocky  foot,  dashed  the 
dancing  river,  its  white  waves  foaming  and  sparkling 
in  the  sunlight. 

A  summer's  day,  bland  and  soft,  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  beneath  the  low  portico  of  the  sweet  cottage 
a  family  group  had  assembled  to  watch  the  golden 
light  which  streamed  up  from  behind  the  mountain,  as 
the  glorious  sun  sunk  calmly  to  rest.  An  old  man, 
with  grey  locks  and  a  trembling  hand  leaned  upon  his 
stair,  and  by  his  side,  her  mild  face,  serene  as  the  blue 
sky  above  them,  stood  an  aged  matron,  clasping  the 
hand  of  a  bright  boy  of  four  years,  whose  young,  dark 
eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  gaudy  west,  while  a  cry  of 
childish  joy  burst  from  his  lips.  At  a  little  distance, 
stood  a  tall,  fine  looking  man  of  thirty-five,  with  a 
broad,  intellectual  forehead,  shaded  by  jetty  locks, 
and  dark,  eloquent  eyes,  which  were  fixed,  not  upon 
the  glowing  west,  but  with  a  look  of  deep  and  earnest 
adoration,  they  rested  upon  the  beautiful  woman  who 
hung  devotedly  upon  his  arm.  Her  soft,  blue 
eyes  looked  into  his  with  an  expression  of  fondness 
and  perfect  confidence,  and  the  light  of  joy  and  happi- 
ness dwelt  upon  her  pure  white  brow.  At  their  side, 
and  bending  gracefully  over  a  large,  blooming  rose 
bush,  was  a  young  girl  of  fifteen  years,  and  a  lovelier 
creature  never  bounded  over  her  native  hills.  A  smile 
lialf  parted  her  red  lips,  and  as  she  shook  from  lier  flush- 
ed chceks,thc  world  of  brown  curls  which  fell  over  them, 
<iid  raised  her  deep,  beautiful  eyes  to  the  silent  group 
near  her,  while  she  twined  the  pale  buds  she  liad  culled 
mid  the  heavy  braids  of  her  mother's  hair,  a  low,  sil- 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  247 

very  laugh  rung  out  on  the  hushed  air,  and  clapping  her 
little  hands  with  delight,  she  cried  in  a  voice  of  music, 

"  Dearest  mamma,  you  shall  always  wear  a  wreath 
of  roses  in  your  hair,  for  they  make  you  look  50  sweet." 

Then,  before  the  blushing  matron  could  reply,  her 
mouth  was  smothered  with  kisses,  and  the  white  arms 
of  the  fairy  girl  were  thrown  about  her  neck,  while, 
with  all  a  mother's  pride,  she  held  her  darling  to  her 
bosom,  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  pure  marble  brow. 

"  Look,  Netta,"  said  the  father,  as  he  pointed  to- 
ward the  golden  crowned  mountain,  and  gazed  from 
her  young,  glad  face,  upon  the  western  sky  ;  "  yon- 
der is  a  glorious  sight !  Do  you  see  those  snowy 
clouds,  floating  across  the  blue  expanse  and  gently 
losing  themselves  in  the  bed  of  fire  which  gilds  the 
mountain's  summit  ?  Oh,  Lucy,"  he  continued, 
"  what  painter's  pencil  could  portray  a  scene  of  such 
unearthly  splendor?" 

"  Lucy,"  said  a  faint,  low  voice,  near  them ;  and 
the  little  group  turned  suddenly  round,  but  stood  spell- 
bound, as  the  figure  of  a  tall,  graceful  woman,  met 
their  gaze,  standing  perfectly  motionless — her  large, 
black,  piercing  eyes,  fixed  with  a  wild  expression 
upon  the  face  of  Netta,  her  long  jetty  hair  hanging 
loosely  over  her  shoulders ;  and  her  dark,  thin  face 
wearing  a  look  of  strange  and  bewildering  anxiety. 
A  large  blanket  nearly  covered  her  person,  and  she 
drew  her  hands  from  beneath  it  and  pressed  them  firm- 
ly  upon  her  brown  forehead,  while  a  rush  of  tumultu- 
ous emotions  seemed  overpowering  her  :  then  sudden- 
ly starting  forward,  as  a  calm  smile  spread  itself  over 
her  handsome  features,  she  grasped  both  hands  of  the 


248  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

beautiful  girl  before  her,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  into 
her  eyes  ;  then  slowly  turning  toward  the  astonished 
mother,  she  muttered,  in  a  low,  rich  voice, 

"  She  is  like  the  White  Flower,  as  she  was  when 
she  left  the  Chief's  cabin  ;  but  White  Flower  must 
have  altered  some,  for  Wanetta's  step  has  become 
Iieavy  and  her  eye  dull." 

"  Wanetta  !"  burst  from  every  tongue  of  the  before 
silent  group  ;  and  with  a  cry  of  joy,  Lucy  Sutton  fell 
upon  the  neck  of  her  red  sister,  and  pressed  her  wildly 
to  her  heart.  Tears  started  to  the  fine  eyes  of  the 
happy  husband,  as  he  grasped  the  hand  of  his  preser- 
ver, and  a  faint  blessing  arose  above  her  head  from 
the  lips  of  the  aged  parents,  while  the  white  arms  of 
Netta  twined  themselves  about  her  neck,  and  the  mer- 
ry boy  clapped  his  tiny  hands,  and  lisped  out, 

"  It's  ma's  red  sister — it  is — it  is !" 

"  Dear,  dear  Wanetta,"  murmured  Mrs.  Sutton,  as 
she  led  the  tired  woman  into  their  beautiful  cottage  ; 
"  1  have  prayed  long  for  this  day,  and  Heaven  has 
sent  you  at  last  to  dwell  among  us  and  be  one  of  our 
own  happy  family.  The  White  Flower  has  changed 
in  looks,  but  her  heart  is  the  same,  and  she  loves 
lier  red  sister  as  fondly  as  ever.  Oh,  she  could  never 
forget  her !" 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  grateful  creature,  as  she  ga- 
zed lovingly  over  the  sweet  face  of  her  friend,  and 
clasped  her  hands  in  both  hers;  "yes,  the  White 
Flower  is  changed,  but  she  is  still  lovely,  and  she  re- 
members the  red  sister  who  Morshiped  her.  Wanetta 
lias  seen  her  father  die,  and  slie  wept  long  upon  his 
cold  face ;   but  she  has   li-it  his  grave  and  the  graves 


THE  WHITE  FLOWER.  249 

of  her  people,  and  come  a  long  way  over  a  strange 
country,  to  see  once  more  her  White  Flower,  and  to 
die  with  her.  And  she  welcomes  her  to  her  own  glad 
home,  and  the  young  Flower  smiles  upon  her,  while 
the  pale  face  has  blest  her.  -Wanetta  is  happy  now," 
she  sobbed,  as,  leaning  upon  the  bosom  of  her  friend, 
she  wept  like  a  child.  "  Wanetta  is  happy,  and  she 
will  thank  the  Great  Spirit  that  she  is  once  more  by 
her  sister's  side  ;  and  she  will  never  leave  her  more." 

Long  ages  have  passed  away  since  the  red  man's 
shrill  cry  was  heard  through  our  noble  forests,  and 
his  light  and  graceful  canoe  glided  over  our  peaceful 
rivers.  Time,  with  a  ruthless  hand,  has  cast  every 
vestige  of  their  once  happy  homes  and  broad  hunting- 
grounds  to  the  winds ;  but  beneath  the  soil  we  now 
tread  so  proudly  and  fearlessly,  have  crumbled  the 
bones  of  many  a  warlike  tribe,  once  proud  in  the  pos- 
session of  their  untamed  natures  and  wild  and  strange 
customs. 

Wanetta,  the  dark-eyed  child  of  the  haughty  Chief, 
with  the  fair  sister  she  cherished  so  fondly  and  faith- 
fully, the  White  Flower  she  idolized,  has  long  slept 
with  her  warrior  fathers ;  but  the  memory  of  her  gen- 
tie  virtues  and  her  beautiful  constancy,  will  nevei 
fade  from  the  heart, 

L2 


250  THE   LAUREL    WEEATH. 


SABBATH  REMINISCENCES. 

BY  MRS.  J.   L.  GRAT. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember,  when  Sabbath  morning  rose, 
We  changed,  for  garments  neat  and  clean,  our  soiled 

and  week-day  clothes ; 
And  yet  no  gaud  nor  finery,  no  brooch  nor  jewel  rare. 
But  hands  and   faces  polished  bright,  and  smoothly 

parted  hair ; 
'Twas  not  the  decking  of  the  head,  my  father  used  to 

say, 
But  careful  clothing  of  the  heart,  that  graced  that  holy 

day — 
'Twas  not  the  bonnet,  nor  the  dress ;  and  I  believed  it 

true ; 
But  these  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  simple, 

too. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  parlor  where  we  met — 
Its  papered  wall,  its  polished  floor,  and  mantle  black 

as  jet : 
'Twas  there  we  raised  our  morning  hymn,  melodious, 

sweet,  and  clear, 
And  joined  in  prayer  with  that  loved  voice  which  we 

no  more  may  hej^r. 
Our  morning  sacrifice  thus  made,  then  to  the  house  of 

God, 
How  solemnly,  and  silently,  and  cheerfully  we  trod  ! 


SABBATH  REMINISCENCES.  251 

I  see,  e'en  now,  its  low,  thatched  roof,  its  floor  of  trod- 
den clay, 

And  our  old  Pastor's  time-worn  face,  and  wig  of  silver 
grey. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  hushed  and  mute  we 
were, 

While  he  led  our  spirits  up  to  God,  in  heartfelt,  melt- 
ing prayer : 

To  grace  his  action  or  his  voice,  no  studied  charm  was 
lent — 

Pure,  fervent,  glowing  from  the  heart,  so  to  the  heart 
it  went. 

Then  came  the  sermon,  long  and  quaint,  but  full  of 
gospel  truth — 

Ah  me  !  I  was  no  judge  of  that,  for  I  was  then  a  youth ; 

But  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  and  well  my  father 
knew, 

In  it  was  meat  for  full-grown  men,  and  milk  for  chil- 
dren, too. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  as  'twere  but  yesterday, 
The  Psalms  in  Rouse's  version  sung,  a  rude  but  lovely 

lay, 
Nor  yet,  though  fashion's  hand  has  tried  to  train  my 

wayward  ear, 
Can  I  find  aught  in  modern  verse,  so  holy  or  so  dear  ! 
And  well  do  I  remember,  too,  our  old  Precentor's  face, 
As  he  read  out  and  sung  the  line,  with  patriarchal 

grace ; 
Though  rudely  rustic  was  the  sound,  I'm  sure  that 

God  was  praised, 


252  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

When  David's  words,  to  David's  tune*,  five  hundred 
voices  raised  ! 

1  remember,  I  remember,  the  morning  sermon  done, 
And  hour  of  intermission  come,  we  wandered  in  the 

sun — 
How  hoary  farmers  sat  them  down  upon  the  daisy  sod, 
A.nd  talked  of  bounteous  nature's  stores,  and  nature's 

bounteous  God  ; 
And  matrons  talked,  as  matrons  will,  of  sickness  and 

of  health — 
Of  births,  and  deaths,  and  rnarriages — of  poverty  and 

wealth ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  stole  apart,  within  the  shady 

grove, 
And  whispered,  'neath  its  spreading  boughs,  perchance 

some  tale  of  love  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  to  the  churchyard  lone, 
I've  stolen  away,  and  sat  me  down  beside  the  rudo 

grave-stone ; 
Or  read  the  names  of  those  that  slept  beneath  the  clay- 
cold  clod. 
And  thought  of  spirits   glittering  bright,  before  the 

throne  of  God  ! 
Or  where  the  little  rivulet  danced  sportively  and  bright, 
Receiving  on  its  limpid  breast  the  sun's  meridian  liglit, 
I've  wandered  forth,  and  thought  if  hearts  were  pure, 
like  this  sweet  stream, 

•St.  David's  waa  ono  of  the  few  tunes  used  by  the  church  to 
which  I  huve  allusion,  and  the  choir  was  the  whole  congregation. 


SABBATH  REMINISCENCES.  253 

How  fair  to  Heaven  they  might  reflect  Heaven's  un- 
created beam ! 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  second  sermon  o'er, 

We  turned  our  faces  once  again  to  our  paternal  door ; 

And  round  the  well-filled,  ample  board,  sat  no  reluc- 
tant guest ; 

For  exercise  gave  appetite,  and  loved  ones  shared  the 
feast ! 

Then,  ere  the  sunset  hour  arrived,  as  we  were  wont 
to  do, 

The  Catechism's  well-conned  page,  we  said  it  through 
and  through ;  • 

And  childhood's  faltering  tongue  was  heard  to  lisp  the 
holy  word. 

And  older  voices  read  aloud  the  Message  of  the  Lord. 

Away  back  in  those  days  of  yore,  perhaps  the  fault 

was  mine, 
I  used  to  think  the  Sabbath-day,  dear  Lord,  was  whol- 
ly thine. 
When  it  behoved  to  keep  the  heart,  and  bridle  fast  the 

tongue  ; 
But  these  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  very 

young. 
The  world  has  grown  much  older  since  those  sun-bright 

Sabbath-days — 
The  world  has  grown  much  older  since,  and  she  has 

changed  her  ways — 
Some  say  that  she  has  wiser  grown — Ah  me !  it  may 

be  true, 


254  THE  LAUREL  WEEATH. 

As  wisdom  comes  by  length  of  years — but  so  does  do- 
tage, too. 

Oh!  happy,  happy  years  of  youth!  how  beautiful,  how 
fair. 

To  memory's  retrospective  eye,  your  trodden  path- 
ways are ! 

The  thorns  forgot,  remembered  still  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers, 

The  loved  companions  of  my  youth,  and  sunny  Sab- 
bath hours ! 

And  onward,  onward,  onward  still,  successive  Sab- 
baths come, 

As  guides  to  lead  us  on  the  road  to  our  eternal  home, 

Or  like  the  visioned  ladder  once  to  slumbering  Jacob 
given, 

From  heaven  descending  to  the  earth,  lead  back  from 
earth  to  heaven ! 

Easton,  Pa. 


THE   POWER   OF   GOD,  255 


THE  POWER  OF  GOD 
AS  MANIFESTED   IN   THE   BIBLE. 

BY  REV.  W.  B.  SPRAGUE,  D.  D.  * 

9 

Reason  ascribes  to  the  Supreme  Being  infinite  pow- 
er. She  contemplates  God  as  the  Creator  of  all 
things ;  not  merely  as  moulding  the  material  after  it 
is  made,  but  as  having  shut  the  gulf  between  existence 
and  non-existence,  by  originating  the  material  itself; 
and  well  may  she  conclude  that  the  power  which  can 
accomplish  such  a  work  as  this,  is  without  a  limit. 
But  we  claim  that  this  attribute  is  yet  more  clearly  and 
gloriously  illustrated  in  the  Bible. 

The  great  facts  from  which  reason  infers  the  infinite 
power  of  God,  viz :  the  creation  and  government  of 
the  world,  are  here  matters  of  direct  record,  and  are 
exhibhed  with  almost  every  variety  of  illustration. 
The  first  thing  that  meets  us  as  we  open  the  Bible,  is 
the  history  of  creation,  not  merely  a  divine  endorse- 
ment of  the  discovery  of  reason,  that  God  made  the 
world  ;  but  a  particular  account  of  the  mode  of  divine 
procedure  in  this  work,  of  the  successive  efforts  of 
Almighty  power,  in  the  production  of  existence,  and 
life  and  beauty,  till  all  was  pronounced  very  good. 
And  the  continued  agency  of  God  in  preserving,  up- 
nolding,  and  directing  all  things ;  in  ruling  in  the 
empire  of  providence;  in  over-ruling  even  the  wrath 


256  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

of  man,  is  also  here  exhibited,  and  with  a  sublimity 
which  the  loftiest  strains  of  human  poetry  and  elo- 
quence have  never  reached.  Not  only  are  the  best  con- 
clusions of  reason  in  reference  to  these  subjects  fully 
'ustified  by  the  Word  of  God,  but  the  Word  of  God 
surrounds  these  subjects  with  additional  light,  and  en- 
larges the  sphere  of  our  vision  in  respect  to  them,  giv- 
ing at  once,  clearness  to  our  views,  and  strength  to  our 
convictions. 

Look  abroad,  if  you  will,  upon  the  handy  work  of 
God,  and  see  how  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  shine  to 
illumine  the  world  ;  and  the  earth  performs  her  sta- 
ted revolutions,  and  the  vast  mechanism  of  creation  is 
kept  moving  continually,  by  an  invisible  power ;  and 
then  look  into  the  Bible,  and  see  with  what  incompar- 
able beauty  and  majesty  these  wonderful  facts  are 
exhibited.  You  cannot  resist  the  impression  that  what 
you  read,  is  a  faithful  description  of  what  you  behold  ; 
nay,  that  the  results  of  your  observation  are  greatly 
corrected  and  amplified  by  the  record.  You  feel 
that  the  picture  which  you  contemplate  was  not  only- 
drawn  from  life,  and  drawn  with  unerring  accuracy, 
but  that  the  hand  which  guided  the  pencil  had  produc- 
ed the  very  works  which  it  describes. 

The  whole  economy  of  miracles  also  illustrates  the 
power  of  God.  I  do  not  mean  that  it  requires  a  great- 
er exertion  of  divine  power  to  work  a  miracle,  than  to 
preserve  what  we  call  the  common  course  of  nature — 
greater  power  to  restore  life  than  to  produce  it  at  first — 
to  cause  the  paralytic  to  leap  and  walk,  tlian  to  keep 
the  body  moving  with  its  native  vigor;  for  to  a  Being 
possessed  of  oiiini])ofciu'e,  all  acts,  cDiisideroil  'i.eroly 


THE    POWER    OF    GOD.  257 

with  reference  to  power,  are  equally  easy.  Neverthe- 
less, it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  power  of  God  is 
rendered  far  more  impressive  by  being  exhibited  in  mir- 
acles,  than.asitis  contemplated  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  His  providence.  And  the  reason  is,  that  while  we 
are  familiarized  to  the  latter,  the  former  takes  us  by 
surprise. 

You  see  the  waters  flowino;  in  their  regular  channels, 
according  to  the  ordinance  of  God,  every  day,  and 
perhaps  you  never  so  much  as  think  of  the  power  of 
God  in  connection  with  it ;  but  let  the  waters  suddenly 
flow  back,  and  the  bed  of  the  river  be  laid  bare  at  the 
command  of  God,  and  you  would  be  overwhelmed  by 
such  an  exhibition  of  omnipotence.  In  like  manner, 
you  see  the  earth  performing  its  regular  and  stated 
revolutions,  now  illumined  by  the  sun  and  now  cloth- 
ed in  darkness  ;  and  the  only  thought  you  have  of  it 
is,  that  it  is  according  to  the  order  of  nature  ;  but  let 
the  sun  stand  still,  as  it  did  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon,  or  ■ 
let  darkness  brood  over  the  earth  at  noonday,  as  it  did 
at  the  crucifixion  ;  and  how  quickly  will  the  Almighty 
God  be  in  all  your  thoughts  ! 

Now  it  is  obvious  that  a  large  part  of  the  agency 
of  God,  as  it  is  exhibited  in  the  Bible,  is  a  miraculous 
agency  ;  and  of  course  eminently  fitted  to  impress  us  - 
with  the  greatness  of  his  power.  Read  the  history  of 
the  patriarchs,  and  notice  his  miraculous  manifesta- 
tions under  that  dispensation,  both  for  mercy  and  judg- 
ment ;  how  on  the  one  hand,  he  appeared  in  various 
forms,  communing  whh  them  as  a  man  communes 
with  his  friend  ;  and  on  the  other,  stood  forth  as  the 

avenger  of  evil,  not  only  burning  cities,  but  drowning 
R 


258  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

a  world.  Trace  his  miraculous  agency  under  the 
Jewish  economy,  and  you  will  find  it  displayed  here 
towards  individuals,  and  there,  towards  the  nation  at 
large ;  here  in  the  pillar  of  cloud  and  of  fire,  and 
there  in  the  fiery  serpents  that  were  sent  to  kill,  and  there 
the  brazen  serpent  that  was  lifted  up  to  cure  ;  here  in 
the^  glories  of  the  burning  mount ;  and  there  in  the 
wonders  of  the  Red  sea  ;  here  in  the  manna  descend- 
ing from  the  clouds,  and  there  in  the  water  flowing 
from  the  rock. 

And  if  you  pass  from  the  Jewish  to  the  Christian 
dispensation,  in  its  earlier  stages,  you  find  the  age  of 
miracles  not  yet  passed  away.  In  the  birth,  the  life, 
the  death,  the  resurrection,  the  ascension  of  Jesus 
Christ,  we  have  a  series  of  the  most  stupenduous  mir- 
acles ;  and  al\er  his  return  to  Heaven,  miracles  were 
wrought  by  his  Apostles,  and  continued  to  be  wrouglit 
till  after  the  canon  of  Scripture  was  closed,  andClirist- 
ianity  had  become  fairly  established.  Indeed,  you 
may  read  whatever  part  of  inspired  history  you  will, 
from  Genesis  to  Revelation,  and  you  can  hardly  fail  to 
realise  that  you  are  always  in  the  presence  of  a  won- 
der-working agency. 

And  here  it  may  be  remarked,  that  the  fixct  that 
many  of  the  miracles  recorded  in  Scripture,  ^\e^e 
wrought  in  connection  with  human  instrumentality, 
instead  of  rendering  them  less  impressive  as  an  exhi- 
bition of  divine  power,  actually  renders  them  more  so  ; 
for  the  feebleness  of  the  instrument  only  magnifies  the 
energy  that  wields  it. 

Moses  was  commandtd  to  smite  witli  Iiis  rod, 
und  the    rock    poured    Ibrtli    wal'M-.      Nauman    was 


THE   POWER    OF    GOD.  25V 

commanded  to  wash  in  Jordon,  and  his  leprosy  disa] 
peared.  The  blind  man  was  commanded  to  anoint  hif- 
eyes  with  clay,  and  behold  his  sight  was  restored  U 
him.  But  who  does  not  see  how  powerless  was  the 
rod,  and  the  water,  and  the  clay,  to  produce  the  effects 
which  resulted  from  the  use  of  them  ?  Who  does  not 
see  that  God's  Almighty  povver  appeared  even  more 
conspicuous,  more  glorious,  from  being  contemplated 
in  the  feebleness  of  the  means  in  which  it  had  its 
operation  ? 

Again,  what  a  wonderful  display  of  God's  omnipo- 
tence is  made  in  the  redemption  of  the  soul  from  the 
power  of  sin,  and  here  the  Bible  not  only  gives  us  the 
doctrine,  but  illustrates  the  doctrine  by  a  copious  and 
extended  history.  And  what,  then,  are  the  teachings 
of  the  Bible  in  relation  to  this  subject  ?  Nothing  less 
than  that  man  as  a  sinner,  is  morally  diseased,  impo- 
tent, self-ruined  ;  that  his  faculties  and  affections  are 
all  enlisted  in  the  service  of  sin,  insomuch  that  by  his 
own,  unassisted  powers,  he  never  turns  from  sin  to  ho- 
liness ;  that  God's  spirit,  by  a  mysterious  agency 
works  for  the  renovation  of  the  soul,  bringing  order 
out  of  confusion,  and  light  out  of  darkness,  and  re- 
storing, at  first  faintly,  and  at  last  fully,  that  divine 
image  which  sin  had  effaced.  The  result  of  this  ope- 
ration is  the  new  creature ;  old  things  have  passed 
away,  and  all  things  have  become  new.  And  if  Al- 
mighty power  was  manifested  in  the  original  creation 
of  the  soul,  surely  it  is  manifested  not  less  in  this  new  cre- 
ation, this  resurrection  from  the  death  of  sin  to  the  life  of 
holiness. 

But  the  Bible  is  full  of  facts  to  illustrate  this  doc- 


260  THE    LAUREL    WREATH. 

trine,  facts  whicli  can  in  no  ^\'ise  be  accounted  for,  but 
on  the  supposition  that  the  doctrine  is  true.  When 
the  Gospel  was  first  introduced  by  Christ  and  his  Apos- 
tles, the  whole  world,  with  but  few  exceptions,  was 
sunk  deep  in  moral  corruption  ;  it  was  one  vast  acel- 
dama,  over  which  the  darkness  of  death  brooded,  and 
seemed  likely  to  brood  forever.  But  as  the  Gospel 
was  published,  the  dry  bones  began  to  move,  and  one, 
and  another,  and  another,  became  the  subject  of  a 
spiritual  resurrection,  and  ere  long  there  was  a  great 
multitude  that  had  put  off  the  works  of  darkness  and 
put  on  the  armour  of  light ;  and  there  were  churches, 
not  a  few,  scattered  here  and  there  amidst  the  wilds 
of  Paganism.  Need  I  refer  to  the  memorable  case'of 
Saul  of  Tarsus  ?  you  remember  how  he  was  not  on- 
ly an  enemy,  but  a  persecutor  of  the  saints  ;  how  he 
not  only  hated  their  religion,  but  thirsted  for  their  blood, 
and  was  hurrying  away  to  Damascus  to  gratify  this 
hellish  appetite,  when  he  had  that  wonderful  meeting 
witli  the  Son  of  God,  which  rcsult(>d  in  his  conversion. 
How  quickly  is  the  enemy  and  the  persecutor  changed 
into  the  friend  and  the  disciple  !  How  the  heart  that 
could  brood  with  delight  over  a  bloody  project,  now 
breathes  the  spirit  of  humility,  and  good-will,  and  de- 
votion !  How  the  whole  purpose  of  his  life  is  changed 
and  a  character  full  of  fierceness  and  malignity  bright- 
ens into  an  illustrious  example  of  moral  excellence! 
I  admit  tliat  some  of  the  circuinslanccs  attending  tliis 
Bvent  were  miraculous;  but  the  cvciil  itself  was  no 
greater  mirailc  than  occurs  in  the  conversion  of  every 
sinner.  To  say  nothing  here  of  the  power  by  which 
the  subject  of  this  cliango  was  struck   to  the  ground, 


THE    POWER    OF    GOD.  261 

and  Willi  struck  blind  by  the  insufTerable  splendor  that 
surrounded  him,  what  think  you  of  the  power  that  thus 
in  a  moment,  effectually  changed  the  haughty  perse- 
cutor's mind,  and  caused  him  to  breathe  forth  the 
prayer,  "Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do  ?"  what 
power  was  that  which,  from  that  hour,  made  him  the 
constant,  and  earnest,  and  laborious  friend  of  that 
cause  which  he  had  been  fierce  to  destroy ;  which 
nerved  him  to  encounter  the  most  vigorous  and  even 
desperateopposition,  and  which  finally  made  him  strong 
to  die  a  martyr  to  the  cause  for  which  he  had  been 
honored  to  live. 

And  this  leads  me  to  say,  what  indeed  has  been  al- 
ready intimated,  that  the  power  of  God  is  manifested, 
not  merely  in  the  doctrine  that  teaches,  and  the  facts  that 
illustrate,  the  conversion  of  sinners  from  sin  to  holiness, 
but  also  in  the  whole  work  of  their  sanctificatidn — in 
their  victories  over  temptation  and  corruption — in  the 
consolation  that  sustains  them  in  the  hour  of  sorrow — 
in  short,  in  every  step  of  their  progress  toward  their 
heavenly  home.  The  Bible  expressly  teaches  that  the 
principle  of  divine  life  that  is  implanted  in  the  soul 
in  regeneration,  is  sustained  and  invigorated  by  the 
same  power  that  implanted  it ;  that  the  saints  are 
mighty  through  God  to  the  pulling  down  of  strong 
holds  ;  that  they  are  kept  by  the  power  of  God  through 
faith  unto  salvation  ;  and  that  in  the  most  advanced 
period  of  their  sanctification,they  are  constrained  to  ac- 
knowledge that  it  is  by  the  grace  of  God  that  they  are 
what  they  are.  And  so  far  as  the  history  of  individual 
saints  is  recorded  in  the  Bible,  we  find  that  it  is  in  per- 
fect  accordance  with  this  doctrine.     They  are  con- 


i62  THE    LAUREL   WREATH. 

Bcious  of  weakness,  but  they  feel  that  in  Jehovah  they 
have  a  fountain  of  strength.  They  are  sometimes 
in  darkness,  but  presently  they  feel  a  reviving  light 
shines  upon  them.  They  have  their  enemies,  but 
faith  in  God  enables  them  to  conquer.  Thus  is  the  re- 
corded experience  of  God's  people  the  exact  counter, 
part  of  the  Scripture  doctrine  concerning  them,  while 
both  the  one  and  the  other  strikingly  illustrate  the 
power  of  God. 

And  there  are  events  yet  future,  recorded  in  the  Bi- 
ble, as  matters  of  prophecy,  in  which  are  to  be  the 
most  majestic  displays  of  omnipotence.  The  conversion 
of  the  world  to  Christianity  is  as  yet  only  begun;  a 
great  portion  of  the  earth  is  still  the  theatre  of  gross 
darkness  and  abominable  idolatry.  But  the  abomin- 
ations of  Paganism  are  hereafter  all  to  cease,  and 
Christianity  is  to  assert  and  maintain  a  universal  do- 
minion, and  praise  to  the  living  and  true  God  is  to 
ascend  as  a  mighty  cloud  of  incense  from  all  jiarts 
of  the  earth.  And  at  a  period  yet  more  remote,  there 
is  to  come  the  final  consummation,  the  waking  up  of 
the  dead  in  every  grave,  the  mountains  trembling  from 
their  bases,  the  earth  heaving  in  frightful  convulsions, 
and  wrapped  in  funereal  fires,  the  congregating  of  all 
the  living  and  the  restored  dead  around  the  judgment 
seat,  the  conduct  and  the  issues  of  the  final  trial,  and 
the  production  of  the  new  heavens,  and  the  new  earth 
wherein  dwelleth  righteousness  ;  and  w  liat  an  exhibi- 
tion will  these  events  be  of  the  mighty  power  of  God  ! 
The  mind  cannot  cont(-mj)late  it,  but  tliat  it  labors  and 
labors  under  the  burden  of  its  own  conceptions. 


MJ    NATIVE    VALE.  263 


MY  NATIVE  VALE. 

BY    MRS.    J.    WEBB. 

My  native  vale  !  a  mother  there 
First  taught  my  steps  to  rove, 

When  all  was  peace,  and  innocence, 
And  purity,  and  love. 

Oh  !  memory  oft  with  joy  returns 
To  hours  of  mirth  and  glee, 

When  breaking  bonds  of  home  control, 
I  roamed  the  valleys,  free. 

Ambition  had  not  fired  my  thoughts, 
My  heart  no  care  had  known. 

Nor  sorrow  round  my  youthful  frame 
Its  withering  mantle  thrown. 

Upon  the  bank  I  took  my  stand, 
And  watched  the  finny  tribe. 

And  offered  with  an  angler's  skill, 
To  each  the  tempting  bribe. 

Oh,  halcyon  days  of  youth  and  peace  ! 
How  oft,  in  after  years. 

When  sorrow's  blight  hath  mar'd  the  hopes, 
A.nd  dim'd  the  eye  with  tears, — 

Doth  memory  turn  from  manhood's  cares 
Youth's  fleeting  joys  to  scan, 

And  murmur,  'when  so  blest  a  boy, 
Oh,  who  would  be  a  man  ?' 


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